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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


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"-or 


By  canon  SHEEHAN, 

D.D 

Luke  DELiiECE:  A  Novel. 

Lisheen:   or  the  Test  of  the  Spirits.    A 

Novel. 

Glenanaar:   A  Novel  of  Irish  Life. 

The  Blindness  of  Dr.  Gray;  or.  The 

Final  Law.     \ 

A  Novel  of  Clerical  Life. 

Miriam  Lucas:   A  Novel. 

The  Queen's  Fillet:  A  Novel. 

The  Graves  at  Kilmorna:  A  Story  of 

'67. 

Parerga:     a    Companion    Volume    to 

"Under 

the 

Cedars  and  the  Stars." 

The  Intellectuals:  An  Experiment  in 

Irish  Club-     \ 

Life. 

Tristram  Lloyd:  An  Unfinished  Novel. 

Edited 

and 

completed  by  Rev.  H.   Gaffney,   O.P. 

THE  BLINDNESS   OF  DR.  GRAY 

OR 

THE  FINAL  LAW 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 

55    FIFTH    AVENUE,    NEW    YORK 

221    EAST    20TH    STREET,    CHICAGO 

88    TREMONT    STREET,    BOSTON 

128    UNIVERSITY   AVENUE,   TORONTO' 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO.  Ltd. 

39    PATERNOSTER    ROW,    E    C    4,    LONDON 

6   OLD   COURT    HOUSE   STREET,   CALCUTTA 

53    NICOL    ROAD,    BOMBAY 

36A   MOUNT   ROAD,    MADRAS 


The 

Blindness 

s  of  Dr. 

Gray 

'l"he 

Final   Law 

BY 

CANON   SHEEHAN,  D.D. 

Author  of 

"My  New  Curate,''^  "Luke  Delmege,'"''  "  Glenanaar^' 
"  Lisheen,"  etc. 


New  Impression 


LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO. 

NEW  YORK  •  LONDON  •  TORONTO 

1932 


SHEEHAN 
THE  BLINDNESS   OF  DR.   GRAY 


COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  THE  DOLPHIN  PRESS 

COPYRIGHT,  1909 
BY  LONGMANS,  GREEN  AND  CO 

All  rights  reserved 


First  Edition,  October   1909 
Reprinted,   October   1910 

April    1915,  May   1919 

October  1922,  May   1928 

March   1932 


MADE     IN     THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 


"'11 
5^b 


CONTENTS 

y,  BOOK  I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  An  American  Letter 3 

J»            II,   A  Change  of  Curates 14 

III.   A  Strange  Accompaniment 26 

Q5            IV.   A  Deputation 35 

V.    ROHIRA 48 

VI.  The  List  of  Improvements        57 

VII.  Raptures  and  Remorse 65 

VIII.   A  Christmas  Gift 77 

IX.  A  Question  in  Theology 86 

X.  DuNKERRiN  Castle 95 

j^              XL   A  Challenge  and  Its  Answer 105 


X3 


Q^         XII.   His  Sister's  Story 117 


fl        XIII.   Unexpected  Visits 126 

^^  XIV.   A  Great— Artist 135 

XV.   A  Peace-Offering 146 

XVI.   Roslein  Roth 156 

XVII.  A  Lowly  Saint 168 

XVIII.  Rejected  by  the  "Powers"    .            ....  176 
XIX.   A  Lucullan  Banquet      ...           ....  184 

XX.   A  Visit  and  a  Prophecy      .      .  ....  199 

XXI.   Comments  and  Confidences       .  ....  209 

XXII.   The  Beast  and  the  Man 218 

XXIII.  Reminiscences ....  227 

XXIV.  The  "Ghost"  in  Hamlet 236 

V 


vi  CONTENTS 

BOOK  II 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV.   Partings 253 

XXVI.   And  Prophecies 263 

XXVII.   A  Stern  Chase 271 

XXVIII.   A  School  Inquiry ^  ...  278 

XXIX.   A  Reverie  and  a  Night  Call 290 

XXX.   A  Contested  Election 298 

XXXI.   The  Great  Renunciation 306 

XXXII.   A  Full  Confession 315 

XXXIII.  Conspiring 325 

XXXIV.  The  Sea-Spirit  Vanishes 332 

XXXV.   Uncle  and  Niece 343 

XXXVI.   Cora  Bewitched 351 

XXXVII.   A  Dread  Ordeal 360 

XXXVIII.   Nature  and  Law 368 

XXXIX.   The  Great  Artist  Again 378 

XL.   The  Brothers  Meet 387 

XLI.   A  Question  and  its  Answer 399 

XLII.   A  Red  Sunset 413 

XLIII.   The  Amabele  Valley 422 

XLIV.   A  Farewell  Sermon 433 

XLV.   The  Moonlight  Shroud 445 

XLVI.   The  Trial 453 

XLVII.   An  Apparition 464 

XLVIIL   "It  IS  the  Law" 476 


BOOK  I 


Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 

And  love  Creation's  final  law  — 

Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 
With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed. 

—  In  Memoriam,  LVI. 


THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

CHAPTER  I 

An  American  Letter 

The  Very  Reverend  William  Gray,  D.D.,  Parish 
Priest  of  the  united  parishes  of  Doonvarragh,  Lackagh, 
and  Athboy,  came  down  to  breakfast  one  dark,  gloomy 
December  morning  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  18 — .  He 
had  risen  early,  like  all  the  old  priests  of  his  generation, 
made  his  half-hour's  meditation  according  to  his  rigorous 
rule  and  habit,  made  his  quarter-hour's  preparation  for 
Mass,  celebrated  the  Holy  Sacrifice,  and  with  the  burden 
of  years  and  the  cares  which  the  years  will  bring,  came 
slowly  down  the  softly-carpeted  stairs,  and  glancing  with 
an  ominous  shrug  of  the  shoulders  at  the  pile  of  letters 
which  lay  on  his  writing  desk,  he  sat  down  to  table,  broke 
his  egg,  looked  out  on  the  gloomy  wintiy  landscape, 
shuddered  a  little,  pushed  aside  the  egg,  ate  a  crust  of 
toast  rather  meditatively  than  with  any  appetite  for  such 
things,  drank  a  cup  of  tea,  and  pulled  the  bell.  His  aged 
domestic  made  her  appearance. 

"Has  the  paper  come?" 

"No,"  she  said.     "The  boy  is  always  late  these  times." 

"  These  times?  "  he  asked  sharply.     "  Why  these  times?  " 

"Near  Christmas,"  she  replied,  rubbing  her  hands  in 
her  check  apron,  "everything  is  late.  Everybody  is  in 
a  hurry." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  the  daily  paper?"  he  said. 
"That  might  be  an  excuse  for  a  late  post.  But  what  has 
that  to  do  with  the  paper?     Remove  those  things." 

He  turned  to  his  pile  of  letters.     There  were  the  usual 

3 


4  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

rolls  of  bazaar  tickets,  red  and  yellow,  offering  fabulous 
prizes  for  sixpence;  bulky  letters,  containing  more  bazaar 
tickets,  but  accompanied  with  pitiful  appeals  for  help  to 
clear  off  debts  from  £500  to  £5000  on  convent  chapels, 
monastic  schools,  etc.  There  were  circulars  from  Dublin 
merchants  offering  new  kinds  of  tea,  or  new  brands  of 
wine,  at  moderate  prices.  There  were  circulars  from 
new  companies,  promising  immense  dividends  at  low 
stock  prices. 

All  these  he  promptly  flung  into  the  waste-paper 
basket,  muttering: 

"What  a  lot  of  idle  people  there  are  in  this  world!" 

Then,  he  took  up  what  may  be  called  his  personal 
correspondence.  Some  of  these  shared  the  fate  of  the 
circulars.  He  put  three  aside  for  further  consideration 
or  possible  reply. 

The  first  was  an  anonymous  letter  written  in  lead  pencil 
and  very  imperfect  in  its  orthography,  informing  him  that, 
unless  he  promptly  dismissed  an  assistant  teacher  from 
his  school  at  Athboy  the  parishioners  would  know  the 
reason  why ;  and  teach  him  that  "  they  might  be  led,  but 
would  not  be  driven."  The  gravamen  in  this  case  was 
that  the  young  teacher,  who  had  been  selected  for  the 
school  on  account  of  his  ability  and  perfect  training,  had 
the  misfortune  to  be  the  nephew  of  a  man  who  had  taken 
a  derelict  farm,  for  which  he  had  paid  a  handsome  sum 
of  money  to  the  tenants  who  had  been  evicted,  and  who 
were  doing  well  in  America.  Dr.  William  Gray  put  that 
letter  aside,  pursed  his  lips,  and  said:  "We'll  see!" 

The  second  was  from  his  Bishop,  informing  him  that 
he  had  made  a  change  of  curates  for  the  united  parishes 
of  Doonvarragh,  Lackagh,  and  Athboy;  and  was  sending 
him  a  young  priest,  named  Henry  Liston,  who  had  been 
for  some  months  chaplain  to  a  convent  in  a  large  town 
in  the  diocese. 

"Humph!"  said  Dr.  William  Gray.  "He  might  have 
given  me  more  notice,  or  consulted  me.  There's  no 
Ganon  Law  in  the  Church  to-day.     A  parish  priest  is 


AN  AMERICAN  LETTER  5 

a  nobody.     Liston!    I  don't  care  for  him.     A  priggish 
little  fellow,  although  he  had  a  decent  father  and  mother." 

He  sat  musing  for  a  while. 

"This  poor  fellow,"  he  murmured  at  length,  alluding 
to  his  departing  curate,  "  is  no  great  loss.  A  perfect 
minus  habens,  without  an  idea  of  Theology  in  his  head!" 

He  placed  the  Bishop's  letter  in  a  rack  for  further  use. 

The  third  letter  was  from  America.  There  was  the 
familiar  head  of  Lincoln  on  the  dark-blue  stamp,  and 
there  was  the  postmark:  Chicago,  111. 

"  Who  can  this  be?  "  he  said.  "  More  trouble,  I  suppose ; 
or  a  baptismal  certificate  for  some  old  pensioner  of  the 
Civil  War!" 

He  slit  it  open,  and  read: 

Chicago,  III., 
24  November,  18  . . . 
Very  Rev.  dear  Father, 

I  regret  to  have  to  announce  to  you  the  sad  tidings  of  the  death 
of  your  sister,  Mrs.  O'Farrell,  at  the  Consumptive  Hospital,  in  this 
city.  She  had  been  in  faiUng  health  for  some  time ;  and  had  some 
idea  of  returning  to  her  native  climate.  But  her  disease  had  so 
far  progressed  that  this  became  impossible.  She  had  every  pos- 
sible attention,  medical  and  otherwise,  during  the  last  weeks  of 
her  illness;  and  had  received  the  Last  Sacraments  from  my  hands. 
She  was  patient  and  resigned,  her  only  anxiety  being  the  future  of 
her  little  daughter,  Annie,  whom  she  committed  to  your  paternal 
care.  When  her  affairs  are  wound  up,  and  her  property  realized, 
I  shall  let  you  know  how  her  circumstances  stood,  and  the  date 
on  which  the  child  can  leave  America  for  her  future  home. 
I  am,  Very  Rev.  Father, 
Yours  in  C*" 

Gekald  Falvey,  Rector. 

Dr.  William  Gray  did  not  place  that  letter  on  the  rack. 
He  held  it  open  in  his  hands;  and  turning  his  chair  toward 
the  fire,  he  remained  for  a  long  time  silently  musing. 
Did  a  tear  gather  and  fall  from  those  stern,  gray  eyes 
under  their  penthouses  of  white,  shaggy  eye-brows?  Did 
his  hands  tremble  a  little,  with  their  thin,  red  veins, 
through  which  the  life-blood  now  ran  sluggishly  after 


6  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

its  three-score  years  and  three  of  labour?  Did  he  dwell 
on  their  boyhood  and  girlhood  up  there  in  the  hills  where 
the  solitary  yew-tree  still  stands  guarding  the  old  place 
where  the  Grays  had  lived  for  generations?  Did  he  think 
of  her  sweet  looks,  her  bright,  girlish  face,  half-gypsy, 
half-saintlike  in  its  perfect  contour,  and  the  dark  hair 
that  framed  it  irregularly,  and  tossed  riotously  across 
her  forehead  without  restraint  of  net  or  bodkin?  And 
her  homecomings,  when  she  game  back  from  the  boarding- 
school  in  Dublin,  and  he  returned  on  his  holidays  from 
Maynooth;  and  he  wondered  and  was  glad  when  people 
turned  around  on  Sunday  morning  and  riveted  their  eyes 
upon  her?  Perhaps  so!  But  if  the  tear  fell,  and  the 
thin,  bony  hand  trembled  —  and  I  do  not  aver  that  they 
did  —  it  might  have  been  from  another  recollection, 
when  on  a  certain  day  he  had  said,  when  others'  opinions 
were  wavering  for  and  against  her: 

"Yes!     She  must  go.     It  is  the  law!" 

And  it  was  no  great  crime  that  Helena  Gray  was  guilty 
of  —  no  violent  rupture  of  Divine  or  human  law  that 
demanded  the  ostracism  of  her  kind.  Only  some  youth- 
ful indiscretion  —  some  silly  letters  that  had  been  found 
in  her  trunk,  revealing  a  little  girlish  frivolity,  but  nothing 
more.  Yet,  the  honour  of  the  Grays  was  tarnished  there- 
by; and  they  were  a  stern  race,  with  the  family  pride  that 
dominated  them  accentuated  by  some  hundred  years  of 
such  rigid  and  stainless  virtue,  that  a  breath  would  now 
blot  and  tarnish  it.  Motherly  affection  had  struggled 
against  paternal  pride,  and  angry  debates  had  been  heard 
up  there  in  the  cottage  where  the  black  yew-tree  flung 
its  ominous  shadow,  until  at  last  the  girl  herself  declared 
that  life  was  intolerable  and  she  would  go  to  her  aunt  in 
America.     Then  the  young  priest  was  called  in. 

He  came.  He  was  still  a  young  curate,  but  he  had 
already  acquired  the  reputation  of  strength  bordering 
upon  harshness,  and  of  an  inexorable  adherence  to  law, 
which  amongst  an  easy-going  and  flexible  population 
made  him  feared,  and  almost  hated.     In  his  own  home 


AN   AMERICAN   LETTER  7 

he  was  also  an  object  of  dread.  His  stem,  clear-cut, 
pallid  features,  never  illuminated  by  a  smile,  were  to 
them  but  the  index  of  a  cold,  hard,  unfeeling  nature, 
which  might  be  respected,  but  could  not  command  the 
reverence  of  great  love.  His  dignity  of  bearing  and  his 
Doctor's  distinction  added  to  the  solemnity  of  his  char- 
acter. Probably  his  mother  alone  loved  him;  and  next 
after  her  supreme  affection,  was  the  more  pallid  and  sis- 
terly affection  of  her  on  whom  he  was  now  called  to  utter 
judgment. 

He  did  so  with  all  the  calm  indifference  of  one  accus- 
tomed to  legislate  or  act  under  a  criminal  code.  The 
letters  were  placed  in  his  hands. 

He  read  them  over  carefully,  a  certain  contempt  for 
girlish  frivolity  showing  itself  in  his  stern  face.  When 
he  came  to  the  expressions  that  had  challenged  criticism, 
his  thin  lips  drew  together;  his  nose  drew  down  like  a 
beak;  and  two  deep  furrows  gathered  between  his  eyes. 

When  he  had  finished  reading,  he  folded  the  incrim- 
inating letters  slowly  and  carefully,  and  without  handing 
them  back  to  his  mother,  he  said  quietly: 

"Helena  wishes  to  go  abroad?" 

"  She  says  so,"  said  his  mother.  "  But  she  is  so  young, 
barely  sixteen." 

"  She  is  old  enough  to  know  the  meaning  of  such  lan- 
guage as  this,"  he  said,  shaking  the  letter. 

"The  words  are  not  very  ladylike,"  said  his  mother. 
"But  they  are  not  sinful." 

"They  are  coarse  and  vulgar,"  the  young  priest  replied. 
Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added: 

"Let  her  go!     It  is  better!" 

The  mother  murmured  something  about  such  punish- 
ment for  mere  indiscretion  and  levity.     He  stopped  her. 

"Every  violation  of  law  is  punished,"  he  said,  "errors 
and  mistakes  as  well  as  sins.     It  is  the  law." 

Then  he  hastily  added: 

"  Her  sentence  is  her  own,  is  it  not?  It  is  her  own  wish 
to  go  away?" 


8  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Yes!"  said  his  mother  hesitatingly. 

"Then  let  her  go!"  he  said. 

Some  weeks  later,  the  young  exile  wrote  a  pitiful  letter 
to  her  brother  asking  for  a  farewell  interview.  She  had 
no  resentment  toward  him.  She  admired  him  too  much. 
He  was  her  idol — her  God.  He  could  do  no  wrong.  It  was 
only  she,  poor  frail  girl  that  could  do  wrong.  She  wanted 
to  see  him,  to  kneel  for  his  blessing,  to-throw  her  arms 
around  his  neck  in  a  farewell  embrace,  to  implore  pardon. 

He  thought  it  over  judiciously,  formed  one  or  two  syl- 
logisms, and  decided  it  were  better  not  to  see  his  sister. 
He  was  unwell  for  some  days  after;  and,  when  he  resumed 
work,  some  people  noticed  that  his  hair  had  turned  gray 
over  the  ears. 

From  this  it  will  easily  be  conjectured  what  manner  of 
man  was  Dr.  William  Gray.  A  hard,  proud,  domineer- 
ing disposition  had  been  doubly  annealed  under  the 
teaching  of  a  rigorous  theological  system,  that  approached 
as  closely  to  Jansenism  as  orthodoxy  might.  The  natural 
bias  of  his  mind  toward  rule  and  discipline  had  been 
strengthened  beneath  the  teaching  of  a  school  where  the 
divinity  of  law  predominated ;  and  he  had  come  by  degrees 
to  believe  that  of  all  other  human  certainties,  this  was 
the  most  certain,  that  Law  was  everywhere,  and  was 
everywhere  paramount  and  even  supreme.  The  Law  of 
Nature,  so  unfeeling,  so  despotic,  so  revengeful;  the 
Natural  Law  guiding  human  conscience,  so  inflexible 
toward  lower  instincts  and  desires;  the  Law  of  the  Realm, 
with  its  fines  and  punishments;  Canon  Law,  with  its 
interdicts  and  excommunications;  Ecclesiastical  Law, 
national,  provincial,  diocesan,  that  bound  as  with  gos- 
samer threads,  but  was  as  rigid  as  iron  when  you  tried 
to  break  through  —  yes !  Law  was  everywhere,  and  the 
slightest  infraction  of  it  was  followed  by  a  stern  retribu- 
tion. There  was  no  escape.  We  might  murmur,  but 
must  obey.  And  all  lower  feelings  and  instincts  had  to 
be  marshalled  and  summoned  and  drilled  into  absolute 
submission  to  universal  and  inexorable  Law. 


AN   AMERICAN   LETTER  9 

And  yet?  As  the  tall  form  bent  down  almost  double 
over  the  peat  and  wood  fire  in  the  grate  this  gloomy- 
December  morning,  was  it  a  tear  that  stained  the  white 
page  of  the  American  letter?  Did  his  bony  hand  tremble 
and  shake  as  he  stirred  the  white  ashes  and  kindled  a 
fresh  flame  amongst  the  charred  embers  that  lay  at  his 
feet?     We  know  not. 

He  rose  up  at  length  from  his  stooping  posture,  and 
walked  up  and  down  the  dining-room,  a  favourite  exercise 
of  his  whenever  he  was  in  a  gloomy  and  anxious  condi- 
tion of  mind,  his  hands  folded  tightly  behind  his  back, 
grasping  that  ill-omened  American  letter.  He  was  agi- 
tated with  remorse  for  the  past,  and  with  anxiety  for  the 
future.  The  words  of  that  letter  —  "  hospital,"  "  con- 
sumption," "only  child,"  "your  sister,"  seemed  to  rise 
out  of  the  page  and  smite  him,  each  with  its  own  deadly 
blow;  and  the  strong  man  trembled  beneath  their  sug- 
gestions, as  a  lordly  oak  trembles  beneath  the  strokes  of 
an  axe  swung  by  a  pigmy  beneath  its  branches.  Sad 
reminiscences  woke  up  that  had  been  hidden  away  and 
buried  beneath  the  debris  of  the  years;  and  he  became 
aware  of  the  fact,  that  should  never  be  forgotten,  that 
the  human  heart,  however  seared  and  shrunk,  holds  a 
terrible  vitality  unto  the  last. 

Then  the  question  would  arise  about  this  child.  Accus- 
tomed to  a  solitary  life  and  the  deeper  solitude  of  his  own 
thoughts,  he  had  always  shrunk  from  any  invasion  on  the 
privacy  of  his  home.  He  had  grown  into  the  habit  of 
neither  giving  nor  accepting  invitations  to  dinner,  except 
with  his  own  curates;  and  the  idea  of  having  a  visitor 
in  the  house  to  be  watched,  and  tended  and  fed  and  enter- 
tained was  always  intolerable.  He  had  to  put  up  with 
such  things  on  the  occasion  of  a  visitation;  and  once  or 
twice,  when  he  had  a  mission  in  his  parish.  But  it  was 
a  time  of  uneasiness  and  trouble,  which  he  terminated 
as  speedily  as  decency  would  permit;  and  then  resigned 
himself  to  the  delightful  luxury  of  being  alone  again. 
And  now,  here  comes  a  cool  suggestion  from  a  priest,  of 


10  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

whom  he  had  never  heard  before,  to  take  into  his  house, 
permanently,  a  girl  of  unknown  age  and  disposition,  and 
to  keep  her  and  be  responsible  for  her  during  her  lifetime. 
The  idea  was  simply  appalling.  He  even  laughed  at  it. 
But  then  the  letter  would  rustle  in  his  hands;  the  dread 
words  "your  sister,"  "consumption,"  "hospital,"  "only 
child,"  would  repeat  themselves  with  the;r  suggestion 
that  now  was  the  time  and  opportunity  to  redress  and 
atone  for  the  past,  until  the  man  was  almost  half  dis- 
tracted with  remorse  on  the  one  hand  and  nameless 
terrors  on  the  other. 

He  stopped  suddenly  in  his  walk,  and  touched  the  bell. 
When  the  housekeeper  appeared,  he  ordered  his  horse  to 
be  brought  around.  It  was  his  refuge  in  all  cases  of  per- 
plexity. The  exercise,  that  drove  the  stagnant  blood  of 
old  age  bounding  to  the  brain,  cleared  his  faculties,  and 
enabled  him  to  think  with  calmness,  judgment,  and  force. 

His  way  lay  along  a  narrow  but  perfectly  level  road, 
bordered  on  both  sides  by  deep  bogs  or  marshes,  where 
some  attempts  had  been  made  at  drainage,  for  there 
were  deep  cuttings  filled  with  water,  and  edged  with 
rushes  and  sedge,  their  sides  lined  with  the  black  peat 
that  gave  fire  to  the  villagers.  The  sea  had  conquered 
all  human  efforts  to  restrain  it;  and  there  far  out  were 
black  pools  of  seawater  left  by  the  receding  tide,  and 
bordered  with  dreary  sand-heaps,  where  a  coarse  and 
tufty  grass  was  waving  in  the  wind.  And  just  beyond 
was  a  wider  reach  of  sand,  where  no  grass  grew,  and  here 
the  gray  wastes  of  the  sea  commenced  their  dreary  stretch 
toward  the  horizon. 

When  the  horse's  feet  touched  the  firm  wet  sand,  his 
rider  pushed  him  into  a  trot,  thence  into  a  rapid  canter, 
and  then  into  a  gallop,  which  he  held  steadily  for  the 
three  miles  of  sandy  beach  that  lay  level  before  him.  At 
the  end  where  the  red  sandstone  cliffs  closed  the  beach,  a 
tiny  forest  of  upright  timbers,  sea-beaten  and  covered  with 
a  green  slimy  weed,  looked  like  the  naked  ribs  of  some 
submerged  and  dismantled  ship.     Here  he  dismounted. 


AN  AMERICAN  LETTER  11 

and  flinging  his  bridle  over  one  of  these  upright  posts, 
he  sat  down  on  one  of  the  redstone  boulders  that  kept 
the  timbers,  originally  intended  as  a  breakwater,  in  their 
place;  and  looking  out  over  the  sad  and  lonely  wastes 
of  the  sea,  he  took  up  his  problems  again.  They  took 
this  form: 

"Only  yesterday,  I  had  flattered  myself  with  the 
thought  that  my  worries  had  ceased.  That  wretched 
money  affair,  that  cost  me  nights  of  sleepless  agony, 
settled  itself  in  its  own  way  at  last.  That  Income  Tax 
surveyor  appears  to  be  satisfied  that  I  am  not  defrauding 
his  wretched  Government.  Mulcahy  has  settled  his  ques- 
tion by  '  leaving  his  country  for  his  country's  good.'  Last 
night  I  slept  a  few  hours  —  the  first  I  had  free  from  the 
petty  worries  of  men  for  months.  And  now!  here  are 
three  more  worries  just  when  I  was  assuring  myself 
that  I  should  have  peace,  peace.  Of  course,  the  first 
is  easily  settled.  There  is  a  principle  at  stake  there. 
That  makes  matters  easy.  Fiat  jusiitia,  mat  coelum.  I 
meet  these  fellows  with  a  Non  possum.  They  may  go 
further;  but  I  shall  not  care.  Liston  is  a  fellow  I  don't 
care  much  for.  But  he  may  turn  out  better  than  I 
hoped.     But  this  girl!— !" 

He  stood  up,  and  found  to  his  surprise  that  the  anguish, 
remorse  and  anxiety  of  the  morning  were  suddenly  swept 
aside.  The  dread  words  "hospital,"  "consumptive,"  no 
longer  stabbed  him  with  pain;  and  he  found  himself 
laughing  at  the  absurdity  of  entertaining  even  for  an 
instant  the  idea  of  taking  his  niece  into  his  house. 

"  I'll  write  to  that  fellow  to-night,"  he  said,  "  and  tell 
him  to  mind  his  own  business.  And  if  he  presumes  to 
send  that  girl  over  here,  I'll  pack  her  back  by  the  next 
boat.     The  idea!!!" 

He  remounted  his  horse  and  rode  back  by  another 
road,  that  led  by  the  outskirts  of  a  little  hamlet,  consist- 
ing of  two  or  three  houses.  Apart  from  these,  and  just 
at  the  angle  of  the  road  that  skirted  a  demesne  wall,  was 
a  cottage  quite  different  from  ordinary  buildings  of  the 


12  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

kind,  inasmuch  as  it  was  gabled  and  the  Gothic  windows 
were  filled  with  diamond  panes  of  glass,  bedded  in  lead. 
It  seemed  as  if  built  for  a  lodge  for  some  mansion,  yet 
it  was  isolated  and  apart.  It  was  occupied  by  an  old 
woman,  over  ninety  years  of  age,  who  had  been  stone- 
blind  and  bed-ridden  for  years,  and  her  granddaughter, 
who  supported  both  by  washing.  Here  tlie  priest  drew 
up  his  horse,  and  shouted.  There  was  no  answer.  He 
then  came  nearer,  and  knocked  on  the  open  door  with 
the  handle  of  his  whip.  The  strong  voice  of  the  old 
woman  rang  down  the  stairs: 

"Who's  there?     And  what  do  ye  want?" 

"It  is  I,  the  parish  priest,  Betty,"  he  said,  in  a  loud 
voice. 

"I  beg  your  Reverence's  pardon;  but  what  do  ye 
want;  and  where's  Nance?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  where's  Nance,"  he  shouted 
back.  "  But  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I  am  coming  in  the 
morning  to  say  Mass  for  you,  and  give  you  your  Christ- 
mas Communion." 

"God  bless  you!"  she  said.  "But  only  on  the  ould 
conditions." 

"Of  course,"  he  replied,  "the  old  conditions.  And  I 
want  your  advice,  too.     Is  it  all  right?" 

"  Av  coorse  it  is,"  she  said.  "  I'll  tell  Nance,  and  she'll 
have  everything  ready." 

"Very  good!"  he  said.  "I'll  have  the  basket  sent 
over  to-night." 

He  cantered  away;  and  after  dinner  he  sat  down  to 
his  desk  and  wrote  a  very  emphatic  letter  to  the  priest 
in  Chicago  to  the  effect  that,  although  he  regretted  deeply 
the  demise  of  his  sister,  and  was  gratified  to  learn  that 
she  had  received  all  the  rites  of  the  Church,  Canon  Law 
and  all  other  laws  forbade  him  peremptorily  from  enter- 
taining even  for  a  moment  the  idea  of  opening  his  house 
to  his  orphan  niece.  It  was  against  all  precedent.  He 
would  be  happy,  although  poor,  to  subscribe  something 
toward  her  maintenance  and  education  in  America,  if 


AN  AMERICAN  LETTER  13 

her  own  means  were  not  sufficient.  But  on  no  account 
whatsoever  was  she  to  be  deported  to  Ireland.  He  added 
a  brief  but  pregnant  postscript  to  the  effect  that  sometimes 
priests  suffer  from  overzeal;  and  that  it  would  always  be 
wise  to  consider  a  little  and  take  into  account  the  feelings 
and  circumstances  of  others  before  presuming  to  trespass 
on  their  domestic  affairs. 

This  letter  he  posted,  and  dismissed  that  subject  as 
one  with  which  he  had  no  further  concern. 


CHAPTER  11 

A  Change  of  Curates 

If  the  good  pastor  of  Doonvarragh,  Lackagh,  and 
Athboy  was  much  disturbed  on  that  gray  December 
morning  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  18 — ,  his  future  curate, 
Father  Henry,  or  Harry,  Liston  (as  every  one  called  him) 
cannot  be  said  to  have  been  much  elated  on  his 
promotion. 

Of  course,  it  was  promotion,  inasmuch  as  he  passed 
thereby  from  the  condition  of  a  chaplain  to  that  of  curate ; 
and  it  was  rapid,  and  therefore  honourable  promotion,  for 
he  had  been  but  a  few  years  ordained.  Yet,  he  was  not 
happy.  The  change  meant  for  him  the  translation  from 
town-life,  to  which  he  had  been  born,  to  country-life, 
with  which  he  was  quite  unacquainted.  But  that  would 
have  been  but  a  slight  cause  for  depression.  The  major 
cause,  that  which  drove  his  spirits  below  zero,  was  the 
reflection  that  he  was  now  to  be  brought  into  intimate 
relationship  with  a  parish  priest  to  whom  he  had  always 
looked  up  with  a  certain  kind  of  reverential  dread. 

As  he  poised  the  episcopal  letter  in  his  fingers  and 
wondered  what  strange  mental  operations  must  pass 
through  episcopal  minds  to  move  them  to  such  singular 
actions,  he  remembered  with  a  cold  shudder  the  day 
when  the  tall,  gaunt,  black  figure  of  his  future  superior 
suddenly  stood  by  him,  as  he  waded  through  some  propo- 
sition in  the  Sixth  Book  of  Euclid;  he  remembered  the 
hard  rasping  voice,  demanding  abruptly  why  the  angle 
ACB  was  equivalent  in  value  to  DEF  and  GHO  even 
though  they  clubbed  their  forces  together;  and  the  unkind 
sentence : 

14 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  15 

"  You  know  nothing  at  all  about  it,  I  suppose,"  which 
was  passed  on  his  silence. 

He  remembered,  too,  the  shiver  of  dread  with  which 
he  raised  the  chasuble  on  the  same  gaunt  figure  at  the 
elevation  of  the  Mass;  and  how  he  cast  down  his  eyes, 
not  daring  from  his  seat  on  the  altar  steps  to  look  up  at 
the  terrible  apparition  with  the  keen  eagle  face,  and  the 
thin  lips  that  uttered  such  startling  and  terrible  truths 
to  the  silent  and  awed  congregation. 

He  remembered  his  first  meeting  on  his  summer  holi- 
days from  the  seminary,  the  abrupt  question,  "What 
are  you  reading?"  the  shy  answer,  "Greek  and  Mathe- 
matics"; the  second  question,  "What  is  the  Paulo-Post- 
Future  of  tuVto)?"  his  own  silence;  the  subsequent  ques- 
tion: "How  do  you  construct  a  perfect  oval,  and  what 
proportions  do  its  diameters  bear  to  each  other?"  his 
own  repeated  discomfitures;  and  the  final  verdict: 

"You  know  no  more  of  these  things  than  you  do  of 
Hebrew." 

The  reminiscences  were  not  enlivening;  nor  were  they 
made  more  pleasant  by  the  rumours  that  pervaded  the 
diocese  that  the  Very  Rev.  Dr.  Gray  was  a  harsh,  crabbed, 
sour  misanthropist;  and  that  his  reputation  as  "a  great 
theologian"  hardly  mollified  public  opinion  and  softened 
it  into  deeper  charity  for  social  imperfections. 

Above  all,  he  had  heard  that  his  future  pastor  was  not 
only  a  rigorist  in  theology,  but  a  rigid  disciplinarian, 
who  never  knew  what  it  was  to  dispense  in  a  law  either 
for  himself  or  others.  He  had  heard  that  this  grave, 
stern  man  fasted,  like  an  ancient  anchorite,  the  whole  of 
Lent,  and  never  took  or  granted  a  dispensation;  that  he 
was  inflexible  in  the  observances  of  statutes,  national, 
provincial,  or  diocesan;  that  he  came  down  with  the  fury 
of  a  revengeful  deity  on  any  infraction  of  law,  or  any 
public  scandal;  that  he  was  a  kind  of  Christian  Druid, 
with  a  sacrificial  knife  in  one  hand  and  the  head  of  his 
victim  in  the  other.  And  yet,  he  had  a  dim  suspicion 
that  with  all  the  brusqueness  and  abruptness  that  this 


16  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

great  man  had  showed  toward  himself,  there  was  some 
concealed  tenderness,  some  deep  interest,  ill-shown  but 
deeply  felt.  And  in  his  own  heart,  vibrating  under  emo- 
tions of  fear  for  the  future,  there  was  also  a  hidden  sense 
of  worship  for  the  greatness  of  the  man  to  whom  his 
future  destinies  were  now  being  entrusted,  and  some 
kind  of  hidden,  unspoken,  unrevealed  affection,  which 
he  dare  not  avow  even  to  himself. 

Their  first  meeting  was  not  propitious. 

"  Sit  down ! "  said  Dr.  William  Gray.  "  So  the  Bishop 
has  thought  right  to  send  you  here!" 

"Yes,  Sir!"  said  his  curate  demurely. 

"  You  must  have  some  excellent  influence  at  work  to 
induce  his  Lordship  to  promote  you  so  rapidly." 

The  curate  was  silent. 

"Why,  it  seems  only  yesterday  when  I  put  the  Latin 
Grammar  in  your  hands." 

The  Latin  Grammar  was  an  ancient  volume,  bound  in 
ancient  calf,  written  in  ancient  type,  and  composed  by 
some  ancient  school-master.  Henry  Liston  remembered 
it  well,  because  he  had  never  returned  it  to  its  owner. 
He  had  been  too  much  afraid  to  approach  him.  He  was 
silent  now. 

"Well,"  continued  the  grim  man,  as  he  stood  on  the 
hearthrug,  his  back  to  the  fire,  and  his  eyes  looking  out 
as  if  challenging  some  far-off  antagonist,  and  not  the 
humble  curate  at  his  feet,  "  your  duties  here  will  be  simple, 
and  not  embarrassing.  You  will  say  Mass  at  ten  o'clock 
every  Sunday  and  holiday  at  Lackagh,  and  at  Athboy 
at  twelve.  You  will  preach  at  every  Mass.  The  ser- 
mons need  not  be  long,  and  must  not  be  transcendently 
foolish.  No  silly  eloquence  or  tawdry  rhetoric,  but  plain, 
catechetical  discourses  to  the  people  on  their  duties.  You 
will  take  up  the  two  collections,  and  render  me  an  exact 
account  of  them  when  required.     Do  you  follow  me?" 

The  curate  murmured  something. 

"Confessions,"  the  grim  man  went  on,  holding  his 
right-hand  forward,  a  pinch  of  snuff  between  the  thumb 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  17 

and  index-finger,  and  the  other  fingers  stretched  apart 
and  outward  threateningly,  "every  Saturday  at  twelve 
o'clock  sharp,  alternately  at  Lackagh  and  Athboy,  and 
the  first  Saturday  of  every  month  here  at  Doonvarragh." 

"I  guess  I'll  be  welcome  here,"  thought  the  curate. 

"You  will  visit  every  school  in  your  district  at  least 
once  a  week,  and  catechize  the  children;  and  you  shall 
never  leave  the  parish  without  permission." 

Here  Henry  Liston  bridled  up. 

"The  statutes  give  permission  to  a  curate  to  be  absent 
twenty-four  hours  by  merely  notifying  his  parish  priest," 
he  said. 

"Statutes?"  shouted  Dr.  William  Gray.  "Yes!  but 
remember,  young  man,  that  it  is  quite  competent  for  a 
parish  priest  to  make  his  own  parochial  arrangements, 
independent  of,  or  ancillary  to,  the  statutes  of  the  dio- 
cese; and  that  is  my  regulation." 

He  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  half  of  which  fell  down  on 
his  waistcoat,  already  dyed  brown,  and  then  he  con- 
cluded : 

"You  will  dine  with  me  at  five  o'clock  every  Sunday 
without  fail." 

Henry  Liston  started  up. 

"I'm  blessed  if  I  will,"  he  cried.  "No  amount  of 
Canon  Law  can  interfere  with  the  personal  liberty  of  a 
man  —  " 

"Sit  down!"  ordered  his  pastor  peremptorily. 

Henry  sat  down. 

"  What  rubbish  have  you  been  reading?  Not  your 
Theology  evidently,  still  less  your  *  Selva'  or  '  Challoner.'" 

"I  don't  fail  to  study  Theology  at  proper  times  and 
places,"  said  the  curate.  "  I  don't  think  a  man  is  bound 
to  sleep  with  a  folio  under  his  head." 

"N— no,"  said  the  pastor,  looking  at  him  admiringly, 
"but,"  he  drawled,  as  if  in  mockery  of  his  curate,  "at 
proper  times  and  places.  Now,  what  author  are  you 
reading  —  say  in  Moral  Theology?" 

"Lehmkuhl!"  said  his  curate,  confidently. 
3 


18  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  Limekiln ! "  echoed  Dr.  William  Gray,  "  I  never  heard 
of  such  a  writer." 

"Oh!  he  is  well  known,"  said  Henry  airily,  "everybody 
knows  the  distinguished  German  Jesuit.  He  has  put 
your  Gury's  and  Ballerini's  on  the  shelf." 

The  pastor  glowered  at  him  for  a  moment,  then  took 
a  pinch  of  snuff  and  smiled. 

"  Very  well ! "  he  said,  "  we'll  see  more  about  it.  Finally, 
it  sometimes  happens  that  young  curates,  when  they 
come  into  a  parish,  think  they  have  a  right  to  fit  up  the 
curate's  house  at  parochial  expense,  and  in  a  manner  more 
suitable  to  some  coxcomb  of  a  doctor  or  lawyer  than  a 
priest.  Now,  mark  me!  You  shall  not  spend  one  penny 
on  that  house  without  previously  submitting  the  items 
to  me.     Do  you  understand?" 

His  curate  nodded. 

"Write  down  a  list  of  necessary  repairs  if  any  are 
necessary ;  and  let  me  see  them.  I  shall  mark  off  all  that 
I  think  may  be  dispensed  with,  and  shall  give  you  an 
order  for  the  remainder.  Have  you  seen  the  house? 
No!  Well,  go  and  see  it.  I  suppose  that  angashore 
is  there  yet." 

Nothing  loth,  Henry  Liston  escaped  from  the  lion's 
den,  and  rode  down  to  see  the  curate  whom  he  was  re- 
placing. He  found  the  latter  toiling  hard  amidst  a  heap 
of  huge  boxes  and  cases,  his  coat  and  hat  off,  and  his 
hands  as  black  from  the  dust  of  books  as  if  he  had  been 
handling  coal. 

"  Hallo ! "  he  cried.     "  You  here !     You've  lost  no  time ! " 

"  No,"  said  Henry  Liston.  "  I've  been  up  to  see  the 
parish  priest  and  get  directions." 

"And  —  you  got  them!"  said  the  other  significantly. 

"Yes.  Curt  and  sharp,  cut  and  dry!  I  say,  what 
kind  of  a  place  is  this?" 

"  Come  here,"  said  the  coatless  curate.  "  Look  and 
see!" 

It  was  a  dreary  landscape  enough  in  all  conscience. 
A  vast  marsh,  cut  up  by  drainage  or  irrigating  canals. 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  19 

seemed  to  stretch  interminably  before  them,  the  sedges 
and  bushes  waving  dismally  in  the  wind;  and,  as  if  to 
emphasize  the  loneliness  and  desolation,  a  solitary  heron 
stood  on  one  leg  by  the  side  of  a  sea-lagoon  intently 
watching  for  its  prey.  All  was  silence,  soHtude,  desola- 
tion. Afar  off,  where  at  last  there  appeared  to  be  habit- 
able land,  a  few  farmers'  houses,  embedded  in  trees,  gave 
a  shadow  of  civilization  to  the  desert;  and  the  little 
white-washed  chapel  on  the  hill,  its  solitary  bell-tower 
emerging  from  the  wasted  trees  around  it,  spoke  at  least 
of  some  kind  of  population  to  be  summoned  Sunday 
after  Sunday  to  Mass. 

"It  is  not  very  inviting!"  remarked  Henry  Liston. 

"No!"  said  the  departing  curate.  "What  did  you  do 
to  be  sent  here?" 

"The  pastor  is  after  asking  me  what  tremendous 
influences  did  I  set  to  work  to  secure  such  a  prize!"  said 
Henry. 

"Ah!  the  pastor!"  said  the  other,  mournfully  and 
sententiously. 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  deposited  several  grimy  volumes  in  the  bottom 
of  a  case,  "did  he  examine  you  in  Theology?" 

"N-no!"  said  Henry.  "He  was  beginning;  but  I  shut 
him  up!" 

"Shut  him  up?"  echoed  the  other,  admiringly  but  in- 
credulously. 

"Yes!"  said  Henry.  "I  mentioned  Lehmkuhl,  the 
German  Jesuit  who  has  come  out  in  two  volumes,  you 
know.  He  had  never  heard  of  him,  but  thought  I  said 
Limekiln,  and  then  he  went  no  further!" 

"  By  J-^ve,  that's  the  best  joke  I  have  heard  for  many  a 
long  day.  Look  here,  Liston,  I'll  send  that  on  the  wings 
of  the  wir>d  far  and  away  across  the  diocese.  It  won't 
extinguish  him,  though.     You  can't  extinguish  him!" 

His  voice  dropped  from  a  tone  of  exultation  to  one  of 
sadness  and  despair. 

"When    I    came    here,"    he    continued,   taking   down 


20  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

book  after  book  from  the  shelves,  but  talking  over  his 
shoulders  at  Henry  Listen,  "I  managed  for  a  time,  too, 
to  shut  him  up.  I  found  he  knew  all  about  Lugo  and 
Suarez  and  Petavius  —  every  line  of  them  and  every 
opinion  they  ever  expressed.  He  had  the  greatest  con- 
tempt for  the  Salmanticenses,  and  I  flung  them  at  him 
on  every  occasion,  although  I  never  saw  a  volume  of 
these  interesting  novelists  in  my  life.  He  used  to  get 
awfully  mad;  but  these  little  fits  were  only  moonlight 
unto  sunlight,  when  I  quoted  Sa.  The  first  time  I  men- 
tioned Sa,  I  thought  he'd  go  for  me.  He  glared  and 
glowered  at  me  without  a  word  for  fully  five  minutes; 
and  then  he  said  with  his  rasping,  contemptuous  voice: 
'Sa!  Sa!  Who's  Sa?  And  what  do  you  know  of  Sa?' 
'Why,'  I  said,  'every  one  knows  Sa  —  Emmanuel  Sa, 
the  greatest  theologian  that  ever  lived.'  'The  greatest 
theologian  that  ever  lived?'  he  shouted.  'Greater  than 
Suarez,  greater  than  Vasquez,  greater  than  Lugo?'  'Cer- 
tainly,' I  replied, '  greater  than  all,  except  Aquinas.'  '  Oh, 
then,  you've  heard  of  St.  Thomas?'  he  said  sarcastically. 
'A  httle,'  I  replied,  waving  my  hand  in  the  air,  as  if  it 
were  of  no  consequence.  'But  I'd  recommend  you  to 
read  Sa.  Sa  and  the  Salmanticenses  would  make  a  man 
of  you.'  He  was  too  stupefied  to  say  more,  except  one 
word:  'You  read  Sa  of  course,  nocturna  versans  manu, 
versans  diurna?'  'Yes!'  I  said  calmly  and  solemnly, 
'Sa  is  on  my  dressing-table  in  the  morning;  Sa  is  my 
pillow  at  night.'" 

"  You  had  tremendous  courage,"  said  Henry  Liston 
admiringly.     "Did  he  say  any  more?" 

"He  said  no  more,"  said  the  toiling  curate,  stopping 
in  his  work,  and  turning  round,  "but  a  few  days  after- 
wards he  came  up  here  on  some  pretext  or  another,  and, 
after  a  little  while,  he  came  over  here  and  soon  began 
to  examine  my  books,  talking  about  indifferent  matters 
all  the  time.  I  knew  what  he  was  looking  for,  but  I 
wanted  to  see  the  play  out.  After  he  had  probed  and 
examined  every  shelf,  he  was  about  to  go  away,  and  had 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  21 

reached  the  door.  Then,  as  if  suddenly  remembering 
something,  he  wheeled  round,  and  said:  'By  the  way, 
that  Spanish  theologian  you  spoke  of,  would  you  let  me 
see  him?'  'I'm  afraid,'  I  said,  'I  can't  issue  a  Habeas 
Corpus  into  eternity  to  evoke  the  immortal  spirit  of  Sa; 
but  I  keep  his  works  in  my  bedroom,  as  I  told  you.  Just 
one  minute,  and  I  will  deliver  the  immortal  part  of  him 
into  your  hands.'" 

"But  you  haven't  Saf"  said  Henry  Listen. 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  said  his  comrade,  producing  a  thick 
ancient  volume,  red-edged,  and  bound  in  boards,  or 
stamped  leather  that  had  the  consistency  of  boards, 
"here  you  are!" 

"By  Jove!"  said  Henry  Liston,  "this  is  a  surprise!" 

"Not  much  greater  than  our  good  pastor  experienced," 
continued  his  friend.  "  You  never  saw  such  consterna- 
tion in  your  life  as  was  depicted  on  his  face.  And  when 
he  opened  the  interesting  volume,  and  saw  it  all  dog- 
eared and  marked  and  underlined,  I  thought  he'd  get 
a  fit.  And  he  would,  only  that  he  fell  in  love  with  the 
ugly  thing  in  an  instant,  and  wanted  to  know  would  I 
sell  it.  I  said  'No!  I  am  not  a  bookseller;  and  besides, 
I  could  not  live  without  Sa.  He  is  meat,  drink,  food, 
clothing,  and  lodging  to  me.  Take  anything  else  you 
like,  but  don't  take  Sa.'  All  the  time  he  was  turning 
and  fondling  the  book,  just  like  a  girl  with  her  first  doll, 
thumbing  the  leaves,  running  back  to  the  index,  study- 
ing the  date,  feeling  the  consistency  of  the  leather,  until 
at  last  I  was  beginning  to  relent.  But  I  drew  myself 
together,  and  was  firm.  Finally,  he  handed  back  the 
book  with  a  sigh,  and  I  thought  his  soul  would  go  out 
in  the  effort.  I  took  it  from  him  affectionately,  as  one 
would  take  a  lost  treasure;  but,  do  you  know,  Harry, 
I'm  going  to  give  it  to  him  now." 

"No?"  said  Henry  Liston,  incredulously. 

"  Yes,  I  am,  and  I'll  tell  you  the  reason  presently. 
But  I've  never  asked  you  to  take  something,  as  we  say 
in  these  parts.     I  can't  give  you  a  decent  dinner  —  " 


22  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Henry  Listen  protested. 

"  But  I'll  get  you  a  substitute  for  one  in  five  minutes. 
What  would  you  think  of  a  few  chops  and  eggs  and  a 
cup  of  tea?" 

"Oh,  no,  no,"  said  the  new  curate,  "you're  upset; 
and  I  won't  be  long  getting  home." 

But  the  good  man  persisted,  and  ordered  the  eatables. 
And  meanwhile  Henry  Liston  was  taking  stock  of  the 
disordered  place. 

"I  guess,"  he  said,  when  his  friend  came  back,  "I'll 
have  a  large  order  on  the  pastor  for  repairs." 

"You  will,"  said  his  friend,  "and  remember,  the 
larger  the  better.  The  best  way  to  deal  with  this  man 
is  to  daze  him,  to  mesmerize  him  by  audacity.  He  has 
two  pet  objects  of  detestation  —  a  stupid  man,  and  a 
timid  man.  Now,  whilst  we  are  waiting,  let  us  see! 
Have  you  a  bit  of  paper  about  you,  —  an  envelope  or 
something?  " 

"Here's  the  Bishop's  letter,  which  I  presented  this 
morning!" 

"The  very  thing,"  said  his  friend.  "You  see  the 
Bishop  is  considerate.  He  always  leaves  a  blank  page 
for  such  things.  Take  thy  pen,  or  pencil,  and  write 
down  quickly,  thou  son  of  Mammon!" 

"Where  shall  we  begin?"  said  Henry. 

"Here,  of  course.  Write:  Dining-room  —  to  be  newly 
papered  in  maroon;  window-shutters,  doors,  and  all  wood- 
work to  be  painted  in  faint  pink,  panels  in  rose-colour. 
Have  you  that  down?" 

"I  have!"  said  Henry  faintly. 

"Very  good.  Now!  Drawing-room — by  the  way, 
you  may  expect  a  little  characteristic  sarcasm  there. 
'Drawing-room,'  he'll  say,  'no!  boudoir!  that's  a  better 
word.'  But  you  mustn't  mind.  Go  on!  Drawing- 
room —  to  be  papered  white,  with  chrysanthemum 
leaves  in  gray.  All  the  woodwork  to  be  painted  white; 
panels  in  pale  blue  or  green.     All  right?" 

"All  right!"  said  Henry. 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  23 

"Two  front  bedrooms,"  continued  his  friend.  "First 
to  be  papered  in  French  gray,  woodwork  to  be  painted 
in  same  colour;  panels  and  architraves  in  lavender.  He'll 
like  that!  Second  room,  to  be  papered  in  sage-green, 
all  woodwork  to  be  painted  white;  panels,  sea-green. 
All  down?" 

"All  down!"  said  Henry. 

"Now,  write:  Back  bedrooms,  hall  and  staircase  —  to 
be  left  to  the  option  of  pastor ! " 

"Look  here!"  said  Henry  Liston,  despairingly.  "This 
would  never  do.     He'd  murder  me!" 

"Never  fear!"  said  his  friend.  "That  last  hint  will 
fetch  him  completely.  '  Left  to  option  of  pastor ! '  By 
Jove!  won't  he  stare?  But,  mark  me,  young  man,  'tis 
your  first  and  greatest  victory.  Come  along  now,  and 
eat  something.  Oh,  by  the  way,  I  was  near  forgetting. 
Write  down:  New  range,  and  floors  of  stables  to  be  tiled 
in  small  pattern,  and  chamfered,  with  channels,  drains, 
etc.  That's  all,  I  think.  But  we  may  remember  some- 
thing else  as  we  get  along!" 

When  they  parted,  Henry  said  to  the  curate: 

"  You  said  you  were  going  to  give  Sa  to  the  pastor, 
and  that  you'd  tell  me  the  reason." 

"  Yes,  I  will,"  said  his  friend,  laying  his  hand  on  Henry's 
arm,  and  speaking  slowly  and  solemnly: 

"  I've  been  chaffing  a  good  deal.  We  must,  you  know, 
to  keep  off  the  blues  sometimes.  But  I  am  going  to 
make  a  present  of  Sa  to  the  pastor,  because  he  is  a  great 
and  good  man  —  one  of  the  greatest  men  I  have  seen  as 
yet.  Others,  who  find  fault  with  him,  are  like  choughs 
or  sea-gulls,  wheeling  round  a  granite  cliff.  He  is  not 
only  a  great  thinker,  but  a  great  man  —  " 

"  I'm  better  pleased  than  if  I  got  a  five-pound  note 
to  hear  you  say  that,"  broke  in  Henry.  "  Do  you  know 
that  is  the  opinion  I  always  had  of  the  pastor." 

"And  you  were  right,"  said  his  friend.  "Now,  for 
example,  you  have  often  heard  how  hard  he  is  about 
money?" 


24  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Yes!  he  certainly  has  that  reputation,"  said  Henry. 

"And  he  has  got  that  name,"  said  the  other,  "from 
the  very  persons  who  received  the  greatest  benefactions 
from  him.  For  example,  he  is  strict  at  the  stations  about 
the  dues,  and  people  who  hear  him  thundering  around, 
say  he  is  avaricious.  They  don't  know  that  he  gives  that 
Station-offering  to  every  poor  crofter  and  cottier  in  the 
bedroom  or  parlour  before  he  calls  the  list.  He  has  an 
awful  name  about  marriages.  Yes!  he  insists  on  being 
paid.  But  his  own  share  goes  back  again  into  their 
pockets,  if  they  are  poor.  And,  mind  you,  he  knows 
that  he  leaves  people  under  false  impressions  about 
himself;  but  he  doesn't  care.  The  man  is  utterly  indif- 
ferent to  human  opinion.  He  believes  l^hat  all  human 
judgments  are  infallibly  wrong.  But,  when  you  get 
inside  that  awful  manner  of  his  and  his  insistence:  'It 
is  the  law ! '  you  find  a  man  whom  you  are  forced  to  respect 
and  even  to  love.  That's  why  I  am  leaving  him  with 
regret  and  giving  him  this  wretched  thing." 

"By  Jove!  you  and  I  agree  there,"  said  Henry  Liston 
enthusiastically.  "  Do  you  know  that  although  I  grew 
up  in  fear  and  trembling  before  him,  somehow  I  felt  I 
had  a  warm  corner  in  my  heart  for  him;  and  do  you  know, 
I  think  he  has  some  interest  in  me." 

"Well,  all's  for  the  best,  I  suppose,"  said  his  friend. 
"And  this  old  place  is  not  so  bad  as  it  seems.  This  is 
the  worst  of  it.  Around  the  corner  here  the  cliffs  run 
along  a  mile  or  two,  and  there  are  the  prettiest  little 
coves  in  the  world.  The  people,  too,  are  good.  A  little 
turbulent  sometimes.  The  pastor  has  a  row  on  his  hands 
just  now  about  a  school  assistant  here.  It  is  only  a 
diversion.  There'll  be  a  lot  of  bad  temper  and  bad 
language;  but  he'll  come  out  all  right  in  the  end.  These 
things  break  up  the  monotony  of  life.  There  are  a  good 
many  Protestant  families;  but  they  are  all  friendly  and 
nice.  There's  an  old  gypsy  here  behind  on  the  cliffs, 
who's  no  great  things.  Doesn't  go  to  church.  Mass  or 
meeting,  and  she'll  some  day  assassinate  the  pastor  for 


A  CHANGE  OF  CURATES  25 

denouncing  her  off  the  altar.  But  all  the  rest  is  smooth 
and  nice.  Do  you  know,  Henry,  you're  a  lucky  fellow. 
I'll  come  around  to  see  you  sometimes,  and  get  a  glimpse 
of  the  old  place.  Good-bye !  If  there  are  any  old  things 
here  that  would  be  useful  to  you,  seize  on  them  at  once. 
There's  a  lot  of  turf,  and  wood  from  an  old  ship,  and  things 
of  that  kind.     Good-bye!" 

Henry  Listen  thought  there  were  tears  in  that  voice 
that  mocked  so  freely. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  Strange  Accompaniment 

When  Dr.  William  Gray  entered  the  house  of  old 
Betty  Lane  and  began  to  ascend  the  crazy  stairs,  the 
first  thing  he  heard  was  the  voice  of  the  old  blind  woman, 
challenging  her  granddaughter  Nance: 

"  Is  he  come  yet?  "  she  shouted. 

"  Not  yet ! "  said  the  girl.     "  He'll  be  here  presently." 

"What  a  long  time  he  takes  to  dress  himself,"  she 
said  in  the  same  high  key.  "The  ould  priests  usedn't 
take  all  that  time  with  theirselves." 

"Whist,  he's  here  now,"  whispered  Nance. 

"Tell  him,  he  must  hear  my  confession,"  said  the  old 
woman,  "before  he  begins  Mass.  I  mustn't  appear 
before  me  Lord  and  Saviour  with  all  these  sins  upon  me 
sowl!" 

The  sight  that  met  his  eyes  when  he  entered  the  little 
chamber  was  one  that  would  touch  a  harder  heart  than 
his;  and,  as  we  have  seen,  there  was  by  no  means  a  hard 
heart  beneath  the  black  coat  of  Dr.  William  Gray. 

The  table,  on  which  he  was  to  celebrate  Mass,  was 
pulled  over  near  the  old  woman's  bed,  and  had  its  spot- 
less cloths  already  arranged  by  the  little  acolyte.  There 
were  a  few  sprays  of  flowers  upon  it,  and  the  two  candles 
allowed  by  the  Rubrics.  But  the  rest  of  the  room  was 
a  blaze  of  light.  In  a  glass  case,  to  shield  them  from  dust, 
were  two  gorgeous  statues,  shining  in  red  and  gold,  and 
before  these,  six  large  candles  were  blazing.  Here  and 
there,  in  presence  of  little  eikons  or  sacred  pictures,  other 
candles  were  alight,  and  fairy  lamps  of  every  colour  shone 
resplendent  before  every  picture  of  Our  Lady.     There 

26 


A  STRANGE  ACCOMPANIMENT  27 

was  a  subtle  perfume  in  the  room  from  a  few  bunches 
of  violets,  which  the  piety  of  this  poor  girl  had  purchased 
from  a  neighbouring  gardener. 

The  old  woman's  confession  having  been  heard,  the 
priest  proceeded  to  vest  for  Mass;  and  then  commenced 
and  continued  the  Holy  Sacrifice  to  the  strangest  accom- 
paniment that  was  ever  heard.  For  Catholics,  as  a 
rule,  attend  the  celebration  of  the  Divine  Mysteries  in 
reverential  silence,  and  no  sound  breaks  the  stillness 
except  a  sob  or  a  cough ;  but  this  morning  the  prayers  of 
the  Church  were  almost  stifled  by  the  loud  and  fervent 
and  emphatic  prayers  of  the  blind  creature  who  lay  there, 
her  head  on  her  pillow,  and  her  sightless  eyes  straining 
after  Heaven.  Hers,  too,  was  no  beautiful  face,  trans- 
figured by  age  into  that  strange  pallor  of  loveliness,  that 
seems  to  many  more  attractive  than  youth.  It  was  a 
strongly-marked,  rugged,  wrinkled,  and  furrowed  face 
that  had  been  burnt  by  the  suns,  and  whipped  and 
battered  by  the  storms  of  ninety  years;  and  into  which 
old  Time  had  driven  his  chisel  too  freely.  Nothing 
seemed  to  remain  of  her  early  strength,  except  her  voice, 
which  was  coarse,  resonant,  and  masculine. 

"  Where  is  he  now  ?"  she  shouted  to  her  granddaughter, 
although  the  priest  was  not  three  feet  away  from  her 
bed. 

"He's  at  the  Glory  in  excelsis,"  cried  Nance. 

"Glory  be  to  You,  my  God,  in  the  highest,"  shouted 
the  old  woman,  whilst  her  sightless  eyes  seemed  to  kindle 
with  the  internal  vision,  "and  pace  on  airth  to  min  of 
good  will.  We  praise  Thee  —  we  bless  Thee  —  we 
adore  Thee  —  we  glorify  Thee  —  we  give  Thee  thanks 
because  of  Thy  great  glory.  Lord  God!  Heavenly  King! 
God,  the  Father  Almighty!  O  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  only- 
begotten  Son!  Lord  God,  Lamb  of  God,  Son  of  the 
Father!  Thou,  who  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world, 
have  mercy  on  us!" 

Here  she  struck  her  breast  so  violently  that  the  bed 
shook  beneath  her. 


28  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Thou,  who  takest  away  the  sins  of  the  world,  receive 
our  prayer!" 

Her  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper,  and  she  shook  her  head 
from  side  to  side. 

"Thou,  who  sittest  at  the  right-hand  of  the  Father, 
have  mercy  on  us!" 

She  struck  her  breast  fiercely  again. 

"For  Thou  alone  art  Holy!" 

She  shook  her  head  from  side  to  side. 

"Thou  alone  art  Lord!" 

She  shook  her  head  again. 

"Thou  alone  art  Most  High!" 

She  flung  out  her  old  wrinkled  arms  toward  the  ceiling 
of  the  room. 

"Jesus  Christ!  who  with  the  Father,  and  the  Holy 
Ghost,  livest  and  reignest  for  ever  and  ever.  Amen!" 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks,  and  she 
wiped  them  aside  with  a  handkerchief,  and  seemed  to 
relapse  into  silence,  turning  over  the  beads  in  her  hands. 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  shouted: 

"Nance?" 

"Yes,  ma'am!" 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"At  the  Offertory,  ma'am!" 

"We  offer  Thee,  O  Lord,"  she  cried  out,  "this  bread 
and  wine,  which  is  about  to  become  the  Body  and  Blood 
of  Christ,  that  Thou  mayst  accept  it  a  clane  oblation 
for  us,  and  for  the  whole  wurruld.  And  I,  Thy  poor 
crachure,  offer  Thee  my  poor  body,  soon  to  be  dust  an' 
ashes  in  the  grave,  an'  me  poor  sowl,  which  Thou  wilt 
save  from  everlasting  damnation,  to  do  with  wan  an'  the 
other  whatever  may  be  plazing  to  Thy  most  Holy  Will!" 

She  relapsed  into  silence  again.  When  the  faint 
tinkling  of  the  bell,  however,  warned  that  the  Consecra- 
tion of  the  Mass  was  at  hand,  she  shouted  louder  than 
before : 

"Nance?" 

"Yes.  ma'am!" 


A  STRANGE  ACCOMPANIMENT  29 

"Where  is  he  now?  Is  that  the  bell  for  the  rising  of 
the  Host?" 

"It  is!"  said  Nance. 

"Thin,  come  here  and  lift  me  up,"  she  cried.  "How 
dare  a  poor  crachure,  like  me,  to  be  lying  on  the  flat  of 
me  back  whin  the  great  King  of  Kings,  and  Lord  of 
Lords,  is  coming  down  widin  a  few  feet  of  me?" 

She  was  lifted  up  with  some  trouble,  and  she  stared 
before  her  in  a  half-frightened  manner,  her  ears  bent 
down  to  catch  the  first  sound  of  the  Elevation  bell.  Then, 
when  its  faint  tinkle  struck  her  senses,  and  her  fancy 
pictured  the  white  Host  raised  above  her  head,  she 
broke  out  into  a  rhapsody  of  praise;  this  time  in  the 
Gaelic  language,  which  seems  to  have  been  formed  to 
make  prayer  into  poetry,  and  poetry  into  prayer.  And 
every  stanza  of  this  sublime  prayer,  sung  as  it  were  in 
rhythmic  assonance,  concluded  with  that  first  verse  of 
"The  Lay  of  the  Sacred  Heart,"  probably  the  most  beau- 
tiful sacred  poem,  after  the  Hebrew  melodies,  that  was 
ever  chanted  by  the  human  heart. 

The  Love  of  my  heart  is  Thy  Heart,  O  Saviour  dear, 
My  treasure  untold  is  to  hold  Thy  Heart  in  my  fond  heart  here. 
For,  ah!  it  is  known  that  Thine  Own  overflows  with  true  love  for 
me: 
Then  within  the  love-locked  door 
Of  my  heart's  inmost  core 
Let  Thy  Heart  ever  guarded  be ! 

This  rhythmical  rapture  went  on  up  to  the  time  of 
receiving  Holy  Communion.  When  she  heard  the  bell 
ringing  as  the  priest  turned  around  with  the  Sacred 
Species  in  his  hands,  she  almost  lost  herself  in  an  agony 
of  penitence  and  humility.  Again  and  again  she  put  up 
her  withered  left-hand,  as  if  to  ward  off  her  God  from 
coming  nigh  her,  while  she  smote  her  breast,  muttering 
with  a  tone  of  heart-breaking  compunction: 

"  Lord,  I  am  not  worthy  Thou  shouldst  enter  under  my 
roof;  but  say  only  the  word,  and  my  soul  shall  be  healed." 


30  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

At  last,  crying  out  "0  Thieraa!  0  Thiema!  0 
Thierna!"  she  received  the  Holy  Communion,  and  then 
sank  back,  silent  and  happy,  on  her  pillows. 

What  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  the  grave,  stern 
theologian  were,  whilst  the  poor,  illiterate  woman  poured 
out  her  soul  in  such  accents  of  fear  and  love  and  holy 
hope,  it  might  be  difficult  to  conjecture,  but  the  follow- 
ing Sunday  at  first  Mass  he  seemed  to  have  the  scene 
described  above  in  his  mind,  when  he  said,  with  more 
feeling  than  he  ever  manifested  before: 

"They  are  going,  my  dearly-beloved  brethren,  they 
are  going  —  this  mighty  race  of  men  and  women,  who 
lived  by  faith,  and  their  vision  of  eternity.  Like  some 
old  weather-beaten  oaks  that  have  survived  a  hundred 
years  of  storms,  or  like  those  solitary  cairns  on  your 
mountains  that  mark  the  graves  of  kings,  a  few  remain, 
scattered,  here  and  there,  in  lonely  hamlet  or  village,  to 
remind  us,  a  puny  race,  of  what  our  forefathers  were. 
We  have  amongst  us  a  good  many  pretty  pieties;  in  fact 
we  are  bewildered  by  all  these  luxuries  of  devotion.  But 
where  —  oh!  where  is  the  mighty  faith,  the  deep  heartfelt 
compunction,  the  passionate  love,  the  divine  tenderness 
of  these  old  Irish  saints?  You  have  nice  prayer-books 
now,  in  velvet  and  ivory  bindings;  but  have  you 
the  melodious  and  poetic  prayers  of  men  and  women 
who  never  learned  to  read  a  line?  You  have  silver- 
mounted  rosaries  rolling  through  your  kid-gloved  fingers. 
Give  me  the  old  horn  or  ivory  beads,  strung  upon  a  thread, 
and  fondled  by  fingers  roughened,  hardened,  and  conse- 
crated by  honest  toil.  You  bow  down  your  hats  and 
bonnets  at  the  Elevation.  I'd  rather  see  one  gray  head 
bending  in  salutation  to  the  King  of  Kings,  and  Lord 
of  Lords.  For,  beneath  those  old  silvered  heads  were 
brains  that  knew  and  penetrated,  by  divine  Faith,  into 
every  mystery  of  our  Holy  Religion;  and  beneath  those 
shawls,  frayed  and  worn,  beat  hearts  that  were  true  to 
God,  true  to  His  Church,  true  to  His  priests  and  true 
to  their  country.     Aye,"  he  cried,  as  he  remembered  his 


A  STRANGE  ACCOMPANIMENT  31 

own  trials,  past  and  present,  amongst  them,  "you  are 
not  as  your  forefathers  were!  You  are  a  superficial, 
cunning,  selfish,  and  tricky  race,  and  in  your  lust  after 
gold,  you  are  traitors  to  your  fellow-men,  and  liars  before 
God.  You  are  no  more  like  your  forefathers  than  the 
cawing  rook,  that  steals  and  screams  above  the  elm  trees, 
is  like  the  lordly  eagle  that  scales  the  mountain-sides, 
and  looks  fearlessly  into  the  eyes  of  the  everlasting 
sun!" 

They  shrugged  their  shoulders,  and  going  out  put  up 
their  new  French  parasols,  and  smiled  angrily,  and  shook 
their  heads,  and  said: 

"No  wonder  we  hate  him!  He  has  never  a  good  word 
to  say  to  us!" 

The  first  time  Dr.  William  Gray  said  Mass  in  that 
humble  home,  the  old  woman  insisted  on  two  conditions 
being  observed  —  he  was  to  stay  to  breakfast,  and  to 
receive  a  half-sovereign,  nothing  less,  from  the  grand- 
daughter. When  she  tried  to  force  money  on  him,  he 
blazed  out  into  a  sudden  fury: 

"How  dare  you?"  he  cried,  "how  dare  you  offer  me 
money?  You,  a  poor  girl,  slaving  and  toiling  from  morn- 
ing to  night  for  a  pittance  —  you,  who  stay  up  to  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning  to  earn  two-pence  for  a  shirt,  and 
a  half -penny  for  a  collar,  to  offer  me  —  gold  —  yes,  gold ! 
Now,  mark,  I  like  to  come  here.  It  does  me  good!  But, 
if  you  ever  dare  to  offer  money  again,  I  shall  quit  this 
house  for  ever!" 

Frightened  and  abashed,  the  girl  began  to  cry. 

"  My  grandmother  will  kill  me,"  she  said,  "  if  she  hears  I 
didn't  give  it  to  you!" 

"Well,  then,  give  it  to  me,"  he  said. 

He  took  the  coin  and  handed  it  back. 

"Now  you  can  say  with  truth  you  gave  it  to  me. 
You're  not  bound  to  say  that  I  returned  it.  And  now, 
I'll  stay  for  breakfast  to  make  friends  again  with  you; 
but  this  must  be  the  first  and  last  time." 


32  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

She  had  a  breakfast  fit  for  a  king  —  roast  chickens, 
ham,  cold  tongue,  toast,  cakes,  tea.  She  had  invited  a 
few  of  the  neighbours  to  "discoorse  the  priest";  but  they 
fought  shy  of  the  honour.  They  probably  thought  they 
would  have  better  appetites  at  home. 

This  morning,  old  Betty  Lane  put  the  usual  questions 
to  her  granddaughter,  which  were  answered  with  equivo- 
cations.    Then  she  said: 

"Is  the  priest  gone  yet?" 

"No!"  he  said.  "I'm  here.  I  want  to  ask  you  a  few 
questions." 

"  Yerra!  is  it  me?"  she  said. 

"Yes!"  he  said.     "I  want  your  advice." 

"  Advice?  "  she  cried  in  her  harsh,  strident  voice,  "  Yerra, 
what  adwice  could  a  poor  angashore  like  me  be  giving  to 
the  minister  of  the  Lord  God?" 

"Never  mind!"  he  said.  "But  just  listen,  and  hear 
what  I  have  to  say." 

"Go  on!"  she  said  in  her  usual  abrupt  manner. 

"I  had  a  sister,  Helena,"  he  said,  "much  younger  than 
myself.     She  went  to  America,  many  years  ago." 

"Yerra,  what  took  her  to  America?"  shouted  the  old 
woman.  "  Sure,  ye  wor  always  a  dacent  family,  and  well 
off!" 

"It  was  I  that  sent  her!"  he  replied.  "I  found  some 
fault  with  her  —  it  wasn't  much;  just  as  a  flighty,  but 
innocent  young  girl  would  commit,  and  I  judged  her 
harshly!" 

"Ah,  yes!"  interrupted  the  old  woman,  "your  tongue 
is  worse  than  yer  heart.  And  you're  hasty.  That's 
what  sets  the  people  agin  you  so  much." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "she  died  lately  in  America; 
and  she  left  it  in  her  will  that  I  should  take  charge  of  her 
child  — a  girl!" 

"  Begor,  that  was  quare,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  but  I 
suppose  she  had  a  tie  in  you  still;  and  she  thought  you 
would  make  up  for  your  thratement  of  herself." 

"Probably,"  he  replied.     "But  now,  I  want  to  know 


A  STRANGE  ACCOMPANIMENT  33 

what  am  I  to  do?     It  is  one  of  those  cases  where  two 
heads  are  better  than  one!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "when  wan  is  lighter  than  the  other. 
But  what  did  you  do?" 

"I  wrote  straightaway  to  the  priest  who  had  written 
to  me,  to  say  that  a  priest's  house  was  no  place  to  bring 
up  a  young  girl  in.  Let  her  go  to  some  convent,  or 
orphanage,  and  I  would  pay  for  her." 

"Well,  an'  then?"  she  said. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  the  stern  man,  with  a  break  in 
his  voice,  which  she  did  not  fail  to  notice,  "the  image 
of  my  poor  sister  will  come  up  before  me  —  her  face  the 
day  I  last  saw  her  in  my  mother's  house,  because  I  refused 
to  say  good-bye  in  my  own;  her  sickness  in  America  in  a 
pubhc  hospital,  her  wasting  away  in  the  fever  of  con- 
sumption, her  looking  with  her  dying  eyes  across  the 
water  to  me  to  protect  her  child,  her  last  words  —  " 

Here  the  strong  man  broke  down,  and  could  not  go 
further.  The  old  woman,  in  her  deafness,  was  aware  of 
it  all. 

"Praise  be  to  You,  the  Father  of  all,"  she  said,  "an' 
they  say  this  man  has  a  hard  heart!" 

Presently,  he  pulled  himself  together  and  proceeded: 

"On  the  other  hand,  you  know,  Betty,  that  I  am  a 
solitary  man,  accustomed  to  be  alone,  hating  the  face 
of  visitors;  and  I  see  what  an  upset  it  will  be  to  me  if  I 
bring  a  young  girl  with  all  her  little  wants  and  troubles 
into  my  house.  And  then  I  have  trouble  enough  with 
cross  and  venomous  parishioners  without  bringing  on 
fresh  anxieties.  And,"  he  added,  as  a  final  stroke,  "I 
am  not  young  now ! " 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  for  fully  five  minutes 
before  the  old  woman  spoke.  She  was  rolling  her  beads 
between  her  fingers,  and  looking  out  into  the  darkness 
that  surrounded  her,  trying  to  pierce  those  white  barriers 
that  stopped  the  light  of  Heaven  from  penetrating  through 
the  little  narrow  tunnels  of  her  eyes.     Then  she  spoke: 

"You  said  you  wrote  to  that  priest?" 
4 


34  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Yes!"  he  replied.  "On  the  spur  of  the  moment  I 
wrote,  and  refused  to  accept  the  responsibiUty  of  caring 
for  that  child." 

"  And  you  wor  right,"  she  said,  emphatically.  "  Haven't 
you  your  own  childre'  to  mind,  the  people  that  God 
gave  you?  Aren't  you  their  father,  and  aren't  they  your 
childre'?  Av  coorse,  they  are  bad  and  good,  cross  and 
quiet,  idle  and  lazy  and  industhrous;  but  they  are  yours, 
yours;  an'  you  can't  throw  'em  over  for  the  sthranger." 

"Just  my  own  view,"  he  said,  rising  up  to  depart,  and 
wondering  at  the  spiritual  and  supernatural  view  which 
this  poor,  illiterate  woman  took  of  a  matter  that  had  only 
presented  itself  to  him  in  a  material  light. 

"Av  coorse,  they  say,"  she  continued,  "that  blood  is 
thicker  than  wather,  but  there's  another  say  in',  'A  priesht 
once  is  a  priesht  forever';  and  don't  you  ever  forget  it." 

"Good-bye!"  he  said,  grasping  her  bony  fingers  in  his 
strong  palm. 

"Good-bye  and  good  luck!"  she  cried.  "An'  thry  an' 
keep  your  face  always  turned  to  the  Lord.  Don't  mind 
anny  wan  else!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    Deputation 

During  all  his  years  as  curate  Dr.  William  Gray  had 
been  looking  forward  to  the  time  when,  emancipated 
from  the  ordinary  drudgery  of  missionary  life,  he  would 
have  abundant  leisure  to  devote  to  those  beloved  studies 
that  were  to  him  more  entrancing  than  the  lightest  litera- 
ture is  to  the  modem  reader.  He  used  to  dream  of  a 
snug  library  or  study,  with  a  southerly  aspect,  for,  like 
all  highly  strung  and  nervous  temperaments,  he  sought 
for  the  exaltation  of  sunshine,  and  dreaded  the  depression 
of  a  dark  room  with  a  northern  window,  never  warmed 
or  hallowed  by  a  blessed  sun-ray.  That  room  should  be 
warmly  carpeted,  its  walls  lined  with  books,  leather- 
bound,  denoting  the  strength  and  stress  of  thought  that 
lay  within.  There  should  be  a  desk,  on  which  writing 
materials  might  lie,  ready  to  hand,  for  although  he  had 
never  written  anything  as  yet,  he  hoped  to  overcome 
that  dread  or  shyness  of  print  which  seems  to  be  the 
damnosa  hereditas  of  the  Irish  priesthood.  And  it  should 
be  well  warmed  in  winter,  particularly  at  night,  when 
he  could  shut  out  all  aspect  of  human  things  and  bury 
himself  in  the  luxuries  of  free  and  unfettered  thought 
about  the  vast  mysteries  of  religion  and  humanity.  Above 
all,  this  library  was  to  be  sound-proof  and  care-proof, 
that  is,  not  a  single  worry  or  care  that  might  stretch  a 
nerve  too  tightly  was  to  be  allowed  to  pass  the  threshold 
of  that  door.  For  Dr.  William  Gray  had  found  that  care 
and  worry  stretch  the  dura  mater  of  the  brain  much  more 
seriously  than  speculations  upon  the  Trinity;  and  he 
wisely  argued  that  it  is  not  only  a  criminal  waste  of  brain 

35 


36  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

tissue,  but  also  a  futile  and  fruitless  waste,  to  worry  with 
feverish  anxiety  about  such  wretched  human  trifles,  which, 
as  a  rule,  manage  to  settle  themselves  into  some  harmony 
by  the  simple  process  of  being  let  severely  alone. 

But  this  was  a  dream  of  youth;  and  alas,  how  few  of 
our  youthful  dreams  are  realized!  True,  here  was  the 
library  with  its  southern  aspect,  through  whose  windows 
the  level  wintry  sun  was  now  shooting  cold  and  ghastly 
streamers  of  pale  light.  And  here  were  his  books,  a 
goodly  number,  some  calf-bound,  some  new  and  haughty 
with  their  vellum  and  gold  bindings,  and  disdaining  the 
companionship  of  their  antique  and  plebeian  comrades. 
And  here  was  the  writing-desk,  just  as  he  had  imagined  it, 
solid  in  Spanish  mahogany,  with  a  massive  ink-stand  and 
a  goodly  array  of  pens  and  large  sheets  of  white  and  blue 
foolscap;  but  alas!  these  last  were  virgin  pages  still.  Be- 
cause the  chamber  was  not  sound-proof,  nor  shadow- 
proof,  nor  care-proof;  and  the  stately  priest  had  to  admit 
that  he  had  used  up  more  brain-power  in  worry  than  in 
work,  and  that  that  long  line  of  white  that  lay  on  the 
carpet  from  wall  to  wall  across  the  room  represented 
not  syllogisms,  but  suggestions,  mostly  futile,  to  disen- 
tangle himself  from  those  horrid  webs  of  circumstance 
that  will  weave  themselves  around  the  most  lonely  lives. 

And  if  all  those  walls  could  speak,  and  echo  back,  like 
the  modern  phonograph,  the  words  that  escaped  the  hps 
of  this  haughty  and  irritable  and  honourable  man,  as  he 
dwelt  betimes  on  some  fresh  instance  of  human  perversity 
or  depravity,  what  a  strange  tale  would  they  tell!  For 
the  overcharged  brain  or  heart  must  speak  to  some  one, 
or  break;  must  put  into  the  dress  of  speech  the  naked  and 
turbulent  thought,  which  will  burst  its  barriers  if  im- 
prisoned. But,  perhaps  the  most  poignant  of  all  the 
sounds  they  would  utter,  would  be  the  Woe!  Woe!  over 
lost  time;  over  the  opportunities  for  sound  study  and 
scholarship  wasted;  over  the  little  wounds  inflicted,  very 
often  in  mere  wantonness  or  thoughtlessness,  by  a  people 
whose  nerves  were  steeled  against  sensitiveness  by  the 


A  DEPUTATION  37 

hardships  they  had  to  face.  For  though  they  feared 
him,  they  knew  that  there  are  ways  to  fret  the  Hon  and 
exhaust  him;  and  every  harsh  word  he  uttered  was  repaid 
by  some  subtle  annoyance  that  fell  and  struck  its  barbs 
into  his  soul.  And  his  vast  learning  and  reputation  as 
a  theologian,  and  his  more  secret  repute  as  at  heart  a 
kind  and  generous  and  honourable  man,  had  but  little 
effect.  These  things  do  not  count  for  much  when  nerves 
are  raw  under  a  castigation,  and  hard  things  are  uttered 
from  lip  to  lip  —  the  echo  of  hard  words  uttered  in  the 
holy  place. 

Of  course,  these  things  were  not  universal,  nor  even 
general.  They  were  limited  to  one  or  two  families,  with 
whom  he  had  come  into  contact  at  first,  and  who  with 
the  old  Pagan  pertinacity  of  their  race  refused  to  forgive 
or  forget.  The  vast  body  of  his  parishioners  were  humble, 
not  too  devout  people,  whose  eyes  were  so  accustomed  to 
search  the  earth  for  what  it  would  yield  them  that  their 
sight  failed  when  they  looked  too  much  toward  Heaven. 
But,  as  is  usual  everywhere,  these  kept  aloof.  They 
stood  on  the  ditch  and  watched.  What  was  it  to  them 
if  the  pastor  chose  to  say  a  hard  thing  sometimes?  And 
what  was  it  to  them  if  a  few  turbulent  and  sullen  peasants 
stood  aloof  from  him,  and  threw  their  little  poisoned 
darts  into  the  very  sanctuary  itself? 

But  I  am  only  proving  that  a  care-proof  house  has  not 
yet  been  patented.  Science  has  not  invented  such;  and 
although  our  good  physicians  are  fond  of  instructing 
their  patients  not  to  worry,  I  am  not  aware  that  any 
skilful  chemist  as  yet  has  discovered  the  secret  of  getting 
the  acids  and  alkalies  of  life  together  without  hissing  at 
each  other. 

This  morning,  however,  as  Dr.  William  Gray  rode 
slowly  homeward  from  the  house  of  Betty  Lane,  he  felt 
some  singular  relief  from  the  load  of  pain  and  anxiety 
that  generally  weighed  upon  him.  His  own  prompt 
action,  so  emphatically  endorsed  by  the  spiritual  fore- 
sight of  that  holy^,  if  ignorant  woman,  had  settled  at 


38  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

once,  and  without  putting  to  too  much  trial  that  exercise 
of  judgment  which  he  so  much  feared,  the  question  of 
his  niece.  He  was  quite  determined  now  to  close  down 
the  doors  of  his  mind  on  any  repetition  of  that  problem. 
He  would  dismiss  it.     That  was  all. 

The  exercise  of  riding  in  the  clear,  frosty  air,  the  relief 
of  mind  he  experienced,  seemed  to  give  him  quite  an 
unusual  appetite,  and  he  greatly  astonished  his  old  house- 
keeper at  dinner  by  saying  that  he  thought  he  would  try 
a  second  egg.  It  was  so  unusual,  so  portentous  a  request, 
that  the  good  woman  was  alarmed.  It  looked  like  the 
approach  of  death,  or  some  fatal  disease,  like  cancer  or 
consumption,  or  perhaps  that  wolf,  which,  in  the  minds 
of  the  Irish  peasantry,  is  supposed  to  inhabit  the  inside 
of  any  delicate  person  who  develops  an  unusual  appetite. 
Then  he  took  up  the  morning  paper;  and  in  reading  of 
the  follies  and  woes  of  the  world  outside,  he  almost  forgot 
his  own,  and  experienced  that  glow  of  satisfaction  which 
comes  from  a  sense  of  security,  or  immunity  from  the 
graver  cares  that  seem  to  beset  and  waylay  humanity. 

Suddenly  a  series  of  shadows,  flung  on  the  wall  before 
him,  struck  him  with  a  sense  of  impending  evil.  He 
heard  the  loud,  single  knock  that  generally  does  not 
prelude  mere  visits  of  ceremony;  he  heard  his  house- 
keeper whispering  in  the  hall,  and  he  knew  she  was 
marshalling  the  unknown  visitors  into  the  parlour  at  the 
opposite  side.  Then  she  came  and  told  him  with  the 
happy  indifference  of  those  who  are  not  concerned  with 
such  troubles  that  "  he  was  wanted." 

"Who  wants  me?"  he  said  brusquely. 

"Some  people  from  the  parish,"  she  said. 

"Ask  them  their  business,"  he  ordered,  and  tried  to 
resume  his  reading  of  the  paper. 

In  a  minute  she  returned  with  the  message: 

"They  says,  yer  Reverence,  they  must  see  yerself !" 

He  rose  up  unwillingly,  thought  a  little,  took  a  pinch 
of  snuff,  made  a  gallant  attempt  to  control  his  rising 
temper,  and  crossed  the  hall. 


A  DEPUTATION  39 

There  were  six  men  of  the  peasant  class,  and  two 
women  in  the  room.  They  had  arranged  themselves  in 
a  semicircle;  and  their  mud-covered  boots  had  already 
left  their  brown  and  yellow  stains  on  the  carpet.  The 
priest  stood  in  front  of  them  without  saying  a  word.  He 
was  fully  a  head  above  the  tallest  man  present;  and  as 
he  craned  his  neck  forward,  and  ran  his  gray  eye  along 
the  line  of  faces,  their  eyes  fell  down  before  him,  and  the 
men  twirled  their  caps  in  fright.     After  a  pause,  he  said: 

"Well?     You  want  me?" 

There  wasn't  a  word  spoken.  The  women  at  last 
nudged  the  men,  and  whispered: 

"Can't  ye  spake?" 

"Come,"  said  the  priest.  "I  cannot  wait.  My  time 
is  precious.  If  you  have  no  business  to  transact,  you 
had  better  go!" 

"'Tis  about  the  schoolmaster  at  Athboy,"  at  length 
one  found  his  tongue  to  say.  "  We  wants  your  Rev- 
erence to  remove  him." 

"Do  you  refer  to  the  principal  teacher,"  he  asked 
ominously,  "or  to  the  assistant?" 

"'Tis  the  young  man  we  don't  want,"  was  the  reply. 
'"Tis  Carmody  we  want  sent  away." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  priest.  "Now  specify  your 
complaints  against  him." 

"We  has  no  complaints  agen  himself,"  was  the  reply. 
"'Tis  on  account  of  his  uncle." 

"The  grabber,"  said  another  of  the  deputation,  sotto 
voce. 

"Now,  Murphy,"  said  the  priest,  turning  sharply  on 
the  delinquent,  "  I  shall  put  you  outside  the  door,  if 
you  won't  conduct  yourself." 

*'I  again  repeat  the  question,"  said  the  priest,  his 
brows  contracting  still  more  sternly.  "  Specify  your 
charges  or  complaints  against  the  assistant-teacher." 

"We  have  nothin'  to  say  agen  the  young  man  hisself," 
the  spokesman  repeated,  "but  we  won't  have  the  nephew 
of  his  uncle  in  our  schools." 


40  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  In  your  schools?  "  echoed  the  priest.  "  And,  when  and 
how,  pray,  did  they  become  your  property?  " 

"They're  the  property  of  the  parish,"  said  the  man  — 

"Yes!  and  I'm  parish  priest,"  repeated  Dr.  WilHam 
Gray.  "  Yes,  do  you  understand,  I  am  the  parish  priest, 
and  therefore  legal  Trustee,  Owner,  and  Manager  of  these 
schools,  so  long  as  I  remain  here.  Furthermore,  I  shall 
appoint  and  dismiss  my  teachers,  according  to  their 
agreements,  without  consulting  you  or  anybody  else  in 
this  parish.  And"  —  he  added  with  slow  emphasis  — 
"  I  shall  not  dismiss  Mr.  Carmody,  until  he  gives  me 
righteous  reason  for  doing  so.     Now,  go!" 

He  waved  his  hand  toward  the  door,  and  they  filed 
out,  one  by  one,  in  silence.  As  he  closed  the  door,  he 
heard  some  muttering: 

"He'll  hear  more  of  this,  begor!" 

He  knew  it.  But  he  cared  not.  After  all,  it  is  a  great 
matter  to  know  that,  when  you  have  to  fight,  your  back 
is  against  the  wall  of  some  great  principle. 

The  next  evening  the  principal  of  the  school  came  to 
say  that  the  school  was  deserted,  except  for  the  presence 
of  six  or  seven  Protestant  boys. 

Dr.  William  Gray  rode  over  the  next  morning  to  study 
the  situation.  He  was  annoyed  and  grieved  over  this 
new  assertion  of  popular  rights;  but  he  was  not  anxious, 
because  he  saw  clearly  before  him  down  along  the  path 
of  duty,  and  there  was  none  of  that  balancing  of  judgment 
that  is  the  worst  element  in  mortal  wear  and  tear.  It 
is  very  trying  to  be  perplexed.  It  costs  nothing  to 
endure.  And,  if  sometimes  the  thought  of  such  baseness 
and  perfidy  as  were  now  at  work  in  his  parish,  sent  the 
hot  blood  leaping  up  to  the  brain  of  the  priest,  he  put 
his  finger  on  the  arteries  and  bade  them  stand  still,  for 
human  perversity  and  depravity  were,  alas!  now  to  be 
taken  as  part  of  the  programme  of  life. 

When  he  entered  the  long  low  room,  where  usually 
sat  some  seventy  or  eighty  pupils,  the  sense  of  the  desola- 
tion smote  him.     Here  was  half  his  parish  in  open  rebel- 


A  DEPUTATION  41 

Hon;  and  here  was  the  practical  instance  of  the  foul 
teaching  that  was  given  to  the  rising  generation. 

There  were  six  boys  present.  Two  of  these  were  the 
sons  of  a  Doctor  Wycherly,  a  retired  naval  surgeon,  who 
had  a  small  property  in  the  parish.  The  elder  of  the  two 
was  a  tall,  fine  lad  about  sixteen  years  old.  His  fair 
handsome  face  was  freckled;  but  the  browning  and  burn- 
ing of  summer  suns  and  seas  had  yielded  to  the  blanching 
of  winter,  and  there  was  an  ominous  whiteness  under 
the  eyes  that  seemed  to  hint  at  some  delicacy  of  constitu- 
tion. His  brother  was  a  more  robust  lad  of  thirteen  or 
fourteen  years,  a  bright,  alert  figure  already  foredestined 
by  Nature  and  Fate  to  find  his  fortune  on  the  seas. 

The  other  boys  were  children  of  coast  guards,  whose 
flagpole,  mast  and  yards  and  pennon  could  just  be  seen 
rising  over  the  chine  of  the  hill  behind  the  school,  although 
very  far  away. 

The  principal  came  forward  when  the  priest  entered, 
and  saluted  him.  The  latter  briefly  acknowledged  the 
salutation,  and  then  asked  where  was  Mr.  Carmody. 

Mr.  Carmody  had  been  down  at  the  end  of  the  school 
behind  the  blackboard.  He  felt  that  he,  in  some  uncon- 
scious manner,  was  a  delinquent,  not  a  victim  —  the  in- 
voluntary cause  of  much  trouble  .in  a  dangerous  place. 
When  called,  he  came  forward. 

In  his  abrupt,  imperious  manner.  Dr.  Gray  interrogated 
him. 

"  Your  uncle  took  this  evicted  farm?  " 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said.  "I  know  very  little  about  him. 
He  never  wi'ote  to  my  father  the  whole  time  he  was  in 
America;  and  we  have  seen  little  of  him  since  he  came 
home.  But  the  Slatterys,  who  were  evicted,  and  whose 
passage  was  paid  to  America  by  their  children,  came  and 
implored  him  to  take  the  place  off  their  hands  and  let 
them  go  away." 

"WeU?"  said  the  priest. 

"He  gave  them,"  continued  Carmody,  "as  well  as  we 
can  understand,  the  full  value  of  their  interest,   four 


42  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

hundred  pounds,  I  believe;  and  they  gave  him  up  all 
rights.  He  had  some  trouble  with  the  landlord,  who 
wanted  him  to  pay  up  all  arrears  of  rent  before  giving 
possession;  but  this  he  refused." 

"Well?"  said  the  priest. 

"The  Slatterys  cleared  out;  my  uncle  went  in;  and 
instantly  the  cry  of  'Grabber'  was  raised." 

"By  whom?" 

"By  the  Duggans,  who  have  the  next  farm  to  this, 
and  who  were  watching  night  and  day,  till  they  could 
get  the  Slatterys  away." 

"Did  they  offer  for  the  place?" 

"Yes,  sir.  My  uncle  can  prove  that  the  Duggans 
wanted  to  purchase  the  interest  for  a  hundred  pounds 
—  a  quarter  of  what  the  farm  was  worth ;  but  the  Slat- 
terys wouldn't  give  up.  Then  the  Duggans  hoped  to 
tire  them  out,  or  starve  them  out;  but  the  unfortunate 
people  held  on  until  my  uncle  came  to  the  rescue." 

"  I  see  it  all  now,"  said  the  priest.  "  I  had  heard  some- 
thing of  all  this;  but  I  wanted  to  see  it  confirmed." 

"There's  one  thing  more,  sir,"  said  Carmody.  "You 
were  good  enough  to  appoint  me  here  as  assistant.  Now, 
I  don't  want  to  give  you  trouble,  or  to  be  the  occasion 
of  dissension  in  this  parish.  If  you  like,  I  shall  resign 
my  place  here;  and  perhaps — " 

"You  are  at  perfect  liberty,  Mr.  Carmody,"  said  the 
priest  sternly,  "to  send  in  your  resignation  at  any  time 
you  please;  but,  mark  me,  I  shall  never  ask  you  to  do 
so,  until  you  give  personal  and  adequate  cause.  I  am 
here  to  maintain  two  principles,  —  one,  my  rights,  as 
manager,  to  appoint  and  dismiss  my  teachers,  altogether 
independent  of  public  opinion;  the  other,  to  do  ordinary 
justice  to  you.  If  you  wish  to  run  away,  the  gap  is 
open." 

He  turned  away,  and  accosted  the  principal  teacher. 

"Do  these  young  Wycherlys  possess  any  brains?" 

He  was  well  known  to  have  no  love  for  Protestants,  and 
he  had  never  noticed  the  boys  before. 


A  DEPUTATION  43 

"The  older  boy,  Jack,"  the  teacher  said,  "is  a  lad  of 
promise.     Dion  is  idle,  except  when  he's  in  a  boat." 

"Call  up  the  elder  boy!"  the  priest  said. 

Jack  Wycherly  came  up  in  an  easy,  lounging  way,  and 
stood  before  the  priest,  looking  up  into  his  face  in  that 
calm  fearless  manner  which  these  young  lads  possess. 
There  was  just  one  little  patch  of  pink  on  his  cheek, 
sent  there  by  the  unusual  emotion  excited  by  the  unusual 
summons. 

"What  book  are  you  reading?"  said  the  priest  gruffly. 

"Sixth  book,"  said  the  boy. 

"Bring  it  here!" 

The  boy  brought  the  book,  after  exchanging  a  smile 
with  his  companions,  who  were  staring  and  wondering 
with  all  their  might. 

"Open,  and  read  anywhere  you  please!" 

The  boy  opened  the  book,  and  read  on  fluently  and 
with  intelligence. 

"Do  you  see  that  word  'colossal'?"  said  the  priest. 
"What  does  it  mean,  and  what  is  the  derivation?" 

The  boy  promptly  gave  both. 

"That'll  do!  How  far  have  you  gone  in  Euclid  and 
Algebra?" 

"  Sixth  Book  of  Euclid  and  Quadratic  Equations,"  was 
the  reply. 

"  You're  nearly  finished  here,"  said  the  priest.  "  What 
do  you  propose  to  do  then?" 

"Father  says  I'm  to  go  to  the  Queen's  or  Trinity," 
said  the  boy. 

"But  you  can't  matriculate  in  either  without  Latin 
and  Greek,"  said  the  priest. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  boy.  "  Father  says  I  must  go  to  a 
grinder  in  Cork." 

"  Would  you  rather  learn  Latin  and  Greek  at  home? " 

"Certainly,"  said  the  boy.  "I'm  sure  father  would 
prefer  my  remaining  here  to  taking  lodgings  in  Cork." 

"All  right  then.  I'll  teach  you  Latin  and  Greek. 
You'll  matriculate  quite  easily  next  term.     Come  down 


44  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

to  my  house  to-night,  and  bring  your  brother  with  you. 
You  need  no  books.  I'll  supply  them.  And  tell  your 
father  that  your  religion  will  not  be  tampered  with." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  boy,  who  was  flattered, 
although  he  was  not  too  well  pleased  at  the  invitation. 

When  the  Rev.  Dr.  Gray  reached  home  he  found  his 
young  curate  before  him  in  a  white  flame  of  indignation. 
Father  Henry  Liston  was  a  young  man  who  wasted  no 
time,  but  when  he  had  a  certain  thing  to  do,  he  did  it  with 
all  his  might.  Hence,  the  very  moment  his  predecessor 
had  got  his  little  household  goods  under  weigh  Henry 
installed  his  belongings.  And  it  was  whilst  he  was  busy 
in  breaking  open  cases,  and  unloosing  the  ropes  of  crates, 
and  hauling  in  furniture  of  divers  sorts,  that  he  fully 
realized  what  had  been  said  to  him  about  a  certain  row 
that  was  just  then  engaging  the  attention  of  his  parish 
priest.  Bit  by  bit,  as  he  gathered  the  information  from 
the  people  about  the  place,  he  soon  realized  the  infamy 
of  the  whole  proceeding.  It  would  have  had  a  depressing 
effect  on  a  more  selfish  mind,  which  would  forebode 
unhappy  things  from  such  an  initial  trouble.  But  Henry 
Liston  was  still  young  and  generous.  He  had  not  learned 
the  caution  and  selfishness  of  age.  He  only  saw  what 
seemed  to  him  an  affair  of  perfidy  and  malice;  and  he 
flamed  up  with  all  that  righteous  indignation  that  such 
minds  feel  before  they  have  learned  to  bank  the  fires  of 
youth  with  the  ashes  of  experience.  His  indignation 
completely  overbore  his  dread  of  his  pastor,  as  he  said: 

"This  is  a  shocking  thing,  sir,  I  have  just  heard  about 
these  scoundrels.  I  never  heard  anything  like  it  before, 
I  got  a  hint  of  it ;  but  never  dreamed  these  fellows  would 
take  it  so  far." 

"Sit  down,"  said  his  pastor,  secretly  pleased  at  such 
sympathy.     "What  have  you  heard?" 

"  Simply  that  these  ruffians  —  Duggans,  I  think  — 
want  to  stir  up  the  parish  against  you  because  you  won't 
dismiss  Carmody.     And  it  appears  that  these  ineffable 


A  DEPUTATION  4.5 

scoundrels  actually  moved  heaven  and  earth  to  get  that 
place  which  Carmody's  uncle  paid  the  highest  price  for." 

"  You  appear  to  be  surprised ! "  said  the  pastor,  hand- 
ing him  his  snuff-box,  a  token  of  friendship  and  admira- 
tion. 

"Surprised?"  said  Henry,  sneezing  violently.  "I 
should  say  I  was.  And  a  good  deal  more  than  surprised. 
Why  it  is  the  most  base  and  dastardly  thing  I  ever  heard 
of." 

"It  only  shows  your  inexperience,"  said  his  pastor. 
"In  a  few  years  more,  when  you  have  seen  a  little  of 
missionary  life,  you  will  be  surprised  at  nothing." 

"But,  surely,"  said  Henry,  shuffling  in  his  chair,  and 
trying  to  keep  back  that  abominable  sneezing,  "surely 
these  scoundrels  cannot  have  such  a  following  in  the 
parish.  Surely,  every  decent  man  would  condemn  and 
repudiate  sympathy  with  such  fellows!" 

"  You  visited  the  schools?  "  said  the  pastor. 

"Yes,  I  did,"  said  Henry. 

"  How  many  boys  were  present?  " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  said  the  curate.  "But  I  suppose 
the  people  don't  understand.  They  are  misled  and  de- 
ceived by  this  parrot-cry  of  '  Grabber.' " 

The  pastor  shook  his  head. 

"They  are  misled  by  their  own  base  cowardice  and 
pusillanimity,"  he  said.  "There's  not  a  single  man 
amongst  them  capable  of  a  manly  action." 

"Well,  all  I  know  is  this,"  said  Henry,  rising.  "I'll 
meet  them  for  the  first  time  on  Sunday  next;  and  if  the 
old  walls  of  Athboy  Chapel  don't  reverberate  with  such 
a  philippic  on  their  baseness  and  cowardice  as  they  never 
heard  before,  call  me  Davy!" 

"You  intend  to  denounce  them?"  said  his  parish  priest 
gravely. 

"Denounce  them?  It  isn't  denouncing,  but  such  a 
blistering,  blinding  tornado  of  vituperation  that  they'll 
remember  it  long  after  Henry  Liston  has  left  them  for 
ever!" 


46  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Sit  down!"  said  his  pastor,  taking  a  huge  pinch  of 
snuff  and  stretching  his  broad  fingers  out  like  a  fan. 

"Now,  next  Sunday,  you'll  preach  on  the  Gospel  of 
the  day.  And  —  not  one  word  —  not  even  one  —  that 
could  be  construed  into  the  slightest  allusion  to  this 
wretched  affair.     Do  you  quite  understand  me?" 

"I  do,  of  course,  sir,"  said  Henry  Liston,  gasping. 
"But  you  don't  mean  to  muzzle  me  in  that  way?  I  can 
quite  understand  that  you  mightn't  care  to  lower  yourself 
to  their  level,  sir.  But,  surely,  I  can  do  it  with  impunity, 
as  I  am  not  immediately  concerned." 

"That's  all  very  good,"  said  his  pastor  gravely,  "but 
you'll  take  my  orders,  and  that  ends  the  matter.  Not 
one  word,  mind,  that  can  even  be  construed  into  an 
allusion  to  this  affair.  Not  one  word,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  I  do,  of  course,  sir,"  said  his  curate.  "  But  'tis  hard 
lines  to  have  to  leave  these  scoundrels  go  scot-free." 

"  Leave  that  to  me!"  said  his  pastor.  " I  think  I  know 
how  to  deal  with  them.     Are  you  settling  down?" 

"  Yes!"  said  the  curate.  "  I've  got  over  my  few  sticks 
to-day,  and  am  pushing  them  up  as  quick  as  I  can." 

"  I  should  have  asked  you  to  remain  here  until  you  had 
finally  settled  down,"  said  his  pastor.  "But  I  thought," 
he  said  with  a  smile,  "  that  you  mightn't  feel  comfortable." 

"Oh!  I  am  all  right  over  there,"  said  Henry  gaily.  "I 
rigged  up  a  bed  last  night  and  slept  like  a  top." 

He  didn't  say  that  his  mattress  was  on  the  floor,  and 
that  a  crate  of  books  was  his  washing-stand. 

"Well,  perhaps  it  is  just  as  well,"  said  his  pastor. 
"You  are  making  some  improvements  and  alterations,  I 
suppose.  All  young  men  do.  They  find  infinite  room 
in  a  parish  for  all  kinds  of  material  and  spiritual  ameliora- 
tions. Nothing  was  ever  done  right  before  they  came; 
and  everything  will  go  to  the  dogs  when  they  leave.  But 
have  you  made  up  your  mind  as  to  what  you'd  require 
in  the  curate's  house?" 

Henry  had  been  turning  over  in  his  mind  during  those 


A  DEPUTATION  47 

few  minutes  the  possibility  of  being  thus  challenged ;  and 
the  probability  that  never  again  would  there  come  a  more 
propitious  moment  for  the  furtherance  of  his  claims. 
And  yet  so  tender  was  his  instinct  of  honour  that  he  shrank 
from  placing  before  his  pastor  the  list  of  improvements 
he  had  drawn  up.  He  dreaded  the  possible  suspicion 
that  his  pastor  might  think  that  all  his  new-born  zeal 
was  influenced  by  base  and  sordid  motives. 

"I  have  drawn  up  a  list,  sir,"  said  he.  "But  I  don't 
intend  to  present  it  now.  There  is  abundance  of  time 
later  on." 

The  old  man  watched  the  young  face  eagerly.  Then 
he  said: 

"Have  you  the  list  about  you?" 

With  his  face  crimsoned  with  blushes,  Henry  drew 
forth  with  trembling  hand  the  list  of  improvements  he 
had  devised,  and  put  it  before  his  pastor.  The  latter 
took  it,  laid  it  on  a  writing-desk,  took  an  enormous 
pinch  of  snuff  between  his  fingers  and  began  to  read. 


CHAPTER  V 

ROHIRA 

Whilst  this  interview  was  in  progress,  there  was  an 
earnest  debate  going  on  at  Rohira,  the  home  of  the 
Wycherlys.  Rohira  was  a  plain,  two-story  building, 
with  unusually  large,  high  windows,  and  it  swept  into  a 
semi-circular  apse  where  it  rested  on  the  outer  edge  of 
a  rather  abrupt  and  precipitous  terrace  (that  had  been 
artificially  raised  behind  the  hill  that  commanded  the 
swamps  and  sea-marshes  of  Athboy),  and  on  a  slope  of 
fields  and  gardens  that  gently  undulated  toward  the  sea. 
It  commanded  a  magnificent  prospect,  for  the  broken 
coast  swept  outward  in  huge  cliffs  toward  the  ocean,  and 
the  house  could  be  seen  for  miles,  its  white  walls  shining 
against  the  hill  behind  it,  and  the  great  sweep  of  upland 
throwing  it  into  greater  relief  in  front. 

Dr.  Wycherly  was  a  retired  naval  surgeon,  who  had 
dipped  in  his  ocean  voyages  into  every  kind  of  quaint 
and  picturesque  bight  and  bay  across  the  world;  and  had 
now  come  to  settle  down  on  a  few  ancestral  acres  that 
were  worth  but  little  from  an  agricultural  standpoint,  but 
were  dear  because  they  were  ancestral,  and  because  they 
bore  the  magical  name  of  "property."  The  huge  hall 
held  many  indications  of  the  past  history  and  tastes  of 
its  owner.  Great  dried  skins  of  snakes  festooned  the 
walls,  where  these  latter  were  not  covered  with  Oriental 
tapestries;  and  every  vacant  coign  and  nook  had  hung 
beneath  it  quaint  old-fashioned  rifles  and  muskets  and 
swords,  gathered  from  natives  in  mart  and  market  from 
Corea  to  Ceylon.  Each  had  its  own  label,  in  parchment, 
indicating  its  use  or  history;  and  sometimes  the  owner 

48 


ROHIRA  49 

would  expatiate  to  visitors  about  such  things,  and  bring 
to  his  aid  all  the  vast  experience  he  had  acquired  by  deal- 
ings with  the  more  exclusive  and  therefore  more  intelli- 
gent denizens  of  the  East.  On  the  right  of  the  large 
hall  was  the  drawing-room,  which  of  late  years  had  become 
rather  a  library.  This,  too,  was  stocked  with  Oriental 
curiosities;  and  cases  of  books,  ancient  and  ponderous 
in  heavy  dark  bindings,  contested  for  place  with  long 
narrow  portraits  in  oils  of  soldiers  and  sailors,  presumably 
the  ancestors  of  the  present  owner.  On  the  left  was 
the  dining-room.  A  heavy  massive  mahogany  dining- 
table;  massive  dining-room  chairs;  a  few  horse-hair  sofas 
and  a  large  oak  dumb-waiter  were  the  only  furniture 
here. 

Dr.  Wycherly  himself,  a  tall,  straight,  angular  man  of 
sixty  years  or  more,  had  more  the  aspect  of  an  artist 
than  of  a  doctor.  And  in  his  library,  when  he  wore  his 
rather  faded  black  velvet  jacket,  his  keen,  sharp  features, 
long  gray  hair,  well-trimmed  beard,  and  easy,  voluptuous, 
undulating  movements,  took  hold  of  the  imagination  and 
transferred  this  remote  and  reserved  man  into  a  society- 
artist  on  his  holidays. 

He  was  very  popular  in  the  neighbourhood  for  many 
reasons.  First,  because  he  had  come  of  an  ancient  family 
in  that  district;  and  here  and  there  were  retainers  or 
children,  or  grand-children  of  retainers,  who  kept  up  the 
traditional  devotion  and  respect  even  for  families  that 
had  decayed.  Then,  he  was  very  kind,  gave  gratuitous 
services  to  the  poor,  pulled  troublesome  teeth,  cured 
white  swellings  and  consumption,  blistered  for  colds,  etc. 
And  it  was  whispered  that  he  had  a  cure  for  cancer  which 
he  had  brought  back  from  the  East,  —  a  decoction  of 
certain  "errubs,"  which  he  alone  knew,  and  which  he 
had  to  gather  under  moonlight,  and  only  when  the  first 
faint  sickle  of  the  moon  appeared,  and  unseen  by  human 
eyes.  The  local  doctor  was  very  mad  about  it  all;  and 
talked  of  quacks  and  charlatans  and  madmen,  roaming 
about  strange,  uncanny  places  at  night,  and  holdine: 
5 


50  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

nocturnal  conferences  with  people  whose  past  was  mys- 
terious and  present  more  than  suspicious. 

There  were  some  slight  grounds  for  these  allusions, 
uncharitable  as  they  were.  The  Doctor  was  eccentric. 
Some  went  further  and  said  that  at  the  death  of  his  wife 
he  had  grieved  so  much  that  he  had  become  temporarily 
insane.  And  a  slight  remnant  of  that  mental  revolution 
still  clung  around  him  in  the  shape  of  a  delusion  that  his 
wife  would  come  back  some  day  and  remain  with  him; 
and  that  in  the  meantime  she  did  accompany  him  in 
her  spirit-form  everywhere,  occasionally  revealing  her- 
self to  him  in  one  guise  or  another.  This  illusion  was 
increased  by  a  singular  discovery  he  had  made  some  years 
after  the  death  of  his  wife. 

Far  down  along  the  coast-line,  where  the  sea-cliffs 
rose  abruptly,  a  fiord,  narrow  and  sinuous,  cut  deep  into 
the  land,  sometimes  broadening  into  yellow  sands,  some- 
times narrowing  into  gloomy  fissures,  which  a  stag  might 
leap;  and  two  high  rocks,  like  the  Calpe  and  Abila  of  the 
ancients,  guarded  the  entrance,  and  tried  to  break  the 
huge  seas  that  came  on  laughing  and  revelling  in  their 
strength,  and  swept  through  the  grim  portals,  and  felt 
all  round  the  walls  of  the  fiord,  and  broke  in  anger  on 
the  sands,  and  passed  up  to  the  furthest  limits,  where 
they  sometimes  leaped  their  barriers,  and  took  a  trophy 
from  the  moss-covered  summit. 

On  the  very  outer  spur  of  one  of  these  guardian  rocks 
there  was  perched  a  tall  and  stately  ruin  of  an  ancient 
castle.  Unlike  most  of  these  ruins,  the  upper  stories 
still  remained,  and  here  and  there  projecting  battlements 
were  sustained  by  heavy  buttresses,  whilst  the  lower 
parts  of  the  castle  were  still  quite  integral  in  door  and 
sunken  window  and  limestone  courses  that  ran  all  around 
the  walls  marking  off  the  different  landings.  It  was 
known  far  and  wide  as  Dunkerrin  Castle;  and  there  was 
a  tradition  that  it  was  not  so  long  uninhabited;  but  had 
been  within  the  century  at  least  the  eyrie  of  a  gang  of 
sea-rovers,  or  half-pirates,  which  had  only  been  broken 


ROHIRA  51 

up  when  English  war-vessels  skirted  the  coast  on  the 
look-out  for  Hoche  and  his  invading  fleet. 

In  this  gloomy,  wind-swept,  and  sometimes  sea-lashed 
castle,  Dr.  Wycherly,  immediately  after  his  wife's  death, 
and  when  he  was  no  longer  under  restraint,  spent  his 
days.  He  said  the  place  was  haunted  by  his  wife's  spirit; 
that  there  she  met  him,  and  revealed  herself  to  him;  and 
that  there  finally  they  would  be  reunited  and  would 
live  happily  together  for  evermore.  A  rather  singular 
discovery  accentuated  this  delusion.  He  was  prowling 
around  one  of  the  lower  rooms  of  the  old  castle  one  dreary 
winter  day.  The  wind  was  howling  through  the  open 
windows,  and  occasionally  a  flake  of  foam,  or  a  spurt  of 
sea-spray  was  lifted  up  from  beneath  and  deposited  on 
floor  or  window-sill.  It  was  just  the  day  he  thought 
when  his  wife's  spirit  would  come  in  from  the  sea  and 
seek  shelter  there.  So  he  roamed  around,  dreaming, 
watching,  hoping,  until,  tired  of  seeking  for  spirits,  his 
mind  came  back  to  earth,  and  he  noticed  a  strong,  oaken, 
iron-knobbed  and  plated  door  in  one  of  the  walls.  It  is 
possible  he  had  seen  it  a  hundred  times  before;  but, 
absorbed  in  his  own  dreaming,  he  had  not  paid  much 
attention  to  it.  This  day,  under  some  sudden  impulse 
he  clambered  up,  and  shook  the  door  violently.  To  his 
surprise  it  yielded,  and  revealed  a  long,  low,  narrow  pas- 
sage, quite  dark,  and  leading  he  knew  not  whither.  Full 
of  the  idea  that  it  might  reveal  something,  he  hastened 
home,  procured  candles  and  a  short  rope,  and  hurried 
back.  The  oaken  door  had  swung  to  again;  but  this 
only  confirmed  the  insane  idea  that  spirits  were  at  work 
there  to  debar  him  from  finding  his  treasure.  He  flung 
the  door  back  violently,  clambered  on  hands  and  feet 
along  the  passage,  until  the  former  touched  an  edge,  and 
then  wandered  in  air,  and  he  knew  he  had  reached 
the  end.  Lighting  a  candle,  he  slung  it  on  the  rope  and 
let  it  down.  It  descended  slowly  without  being  extin- 
guished and  he  knew  the  air  was  pure ;  and  from  the  dim 
reflection    he    saw   a    narrow   chamber,   framed    around 


52  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

with  undashed  and  uncemented  walls.  Slowly  with- 
drawing the  candle,  and  placing  it  on  the  edge  of  the 
chamber,  he  let  himself  down  gently  until  he  touched 
the  floor  of  stone.  He  looked  around.  There  was  noth- 
ing to  be  seen.  But  just  as  he  had  sighed  a  sigh  of  despair, 
he  saw  in  one  corner  a  long,  narrow  box,  tied  round  with 
wire  that  had  long  since  rusted.  He  raised  the  box.  It 
was  light,  as  if  empty.  He  was  just  able  by  straining  a 
little  to  place  it  on  the  edge  near  the  candle;  and  then 
he  drew  himself  up,  groped  along  the  narrow  passage 
again,  and  emerged  into  the  large  chamber  of  the  castle. 

Hurrying  home  with  his  treasure,  and  afraid  that  some 
one  would  see  him,  he  hastened  to  his  bedroom,  undid 
the  rusty  wire  that  easily  snapped  beneath  his  fingers, 
and  raised  the  cover.  Then  were  revealed  to  his  wonder- 
ing eyes  some  long,  fair  tresses  of  a  woman's  hair,  appar- 
ently in  a  state  of  perfect  preservation,  and  exhaling  a 
faint  perfume,  and  on  them  was  laid  a  letter.  For  some 
time  he  stood  entranced  before  this  message  from  the 
grave;  and  then  with  trembling  fingers  he  took  up  the 
long  coils  of  hair  and  tried  to  weave  them  around  his 
fingers.  They  snapped  asunder  at  once,  and  seemed  to 
fall  into  golden  dust.  He  took  the  letter.  It  broke  in 
his  fingers.  Holding  the  fragments  to  the  light,  he 
thought  he  discerned  some  faint  appearance  of  hand- 
writing: but,  bit  by  bit,  the  paper  or  parchment  crumbled 
in  his  hands,  and  dissolved,  Hke  the  hair,  into  dust.  He 
sat  for  a  time  pondering,  dreaming,  exulting  over  this 
strange  missive.  Then  he  sighed,  drew  down  the  cover 
on  the  golden  dust  and  fastened  it  securely;  placed  it  in 
a  cabinet  as  something  altogether  sacred,  a  shrine  where 
he  could  worship  daily.  But  his  visits  to  the  old  castle 
might  be  said  to  have  ceased  from  that  day. 

Apart  from  this  monomania,  Dr.  Wycherly  was  alto- 
gether a  sane  being.  In  all  the  other  affairs  of  life  he 
was  a  sensible,  although  not  a  shrewd  man.  He  had  no 
talent  for  business  matters,  and  his  land  was  not  pro- 
ductive.    He  was  wrapped  up  in  his  science,  and  in  his 


ROHIRA  53 

benevolence;  passing  easily  from  his  books  to  the  service 
of  the  poor,  who  thronged  his  hall,  and  who  presented  a 
lugubrious  spectacle  enough  with  all  kinds  of  bandages 
and  wraps,  and  malodorous  from  iodoform  and  creosote, 
which  he  plentifully  lavished  upon  them. 

He  had  altogether  the  character  of  a  benevolent  mad- 
man, for,  apart  altogether  from  his  illusions  about  his 
wife,  it  was  taken  as  a  certain  sign  of  mental  trouble, 
even  by  those  who  were  his  beneficiaries,  that  he  should 
expend  skill  and  medicine  without  ever  exacting  a  fee. 

Hence  when  a  band  of  strolling  gypsies  (who  had 
strayed  into  the  parish,  and  who  just  as  they  were  reaping 
a  bountiful  harvest  by  the  telling  of  fortunes  and  the 
stealing  of  hens  and  such  other  portable  property,  had 
been  summarily  expelled  from  the  parish  by  the  vigorous 
denunciations  of  the  priests),  left  behind  them  in  some 
rancorous  quarrel  a  few  of  their  tribe,  these  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  taking  possession  of  the  old  castle,  and  settling 
there  as  permanent  inmates.  In  fact,  they  did  not  ask 
permission;  for  the  first  indication  of  their  presence  was 
a  wreath  of  smoke  from  some  long-disused  chimney. 
They  were  then  summarily  called  to  account,  made  the 
most  obsequious  apologies,  appealed  to  the  well-known 
benevolence  of  Dr.  Wycherly,  protested  that  they  had 
come  there  from  far-off  and  unknown  places  at  the  invita- 
tion of  his  deceased  wife,  and  were  left  thenceforward 
undisturbed. 

This  family  consisted  of  a  woman,  apparently  about 
sixty  years  of  age,  but  tall  and  sinewy  and  strong,  as  if 
each  decade  had  but  lightly  left  its  mark  upon  her.  She 
was  very  sallow  of  complexion,  and  two  deep  lines  that 
ran  from  eye  to  lip  on  either  side  gave  her  a  sinister  ex- 
pression, which  was  emphasized  by  the  bold,  fearless  gaze 
of  eyes  that  never  seemed  to  wink  or  flinch  or  fall  before 
the  eye  of  mortal.  There  was  a  brood  of  dusky  children, 
ranging  from  a  babe  of  twelve  months  to  a  girl  of  twelve 
years,  —  all  swarthy  and  dirty  and  ill-kept,  but  healthy 
and  hardy  from  eternal  exposure  to  sun  and  wind  and 


54  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

rain.  Their  father  was  a  man  of  thirty,  a  lithe,  vigorous, 
active  fellow,  who  after  his  arrival  at  Dunkerrin  Castle 
seemed  to  spend  his  life  in  his  boat,  watching  his  lobster 
beds  in  summer,  and  earning  a  decent  livelihood  by  pull- 
ing out  and  hailing  outward-bound  and  home-bound 
vessels,  and  selling  his  ugly  freiglit  at  very  handsome 
prices.  In  winter,  or  during  his  idle  summer  and  autumn 
days,  he  went  about  mending  kettles  or  earthenware  for 
the  farmers,  or  he  worked  for  Dr.  Wycherly  in  the  fields 
or  around  the  house  for  moderate  wages,  and  appeared 
to  be  an  industrious  and  skilful  man. 

Notwithstanding  all  this  appearance  of  harmlessness 
and  good-will,  strange  stories  about  this  uncanny  lot  began 
to  wander  around.  Judith,  the  woman,  very  soon  ac- 
quired an  unsavoury  reputation,  not  only  for  fortune- 
telling,  which  was  rather  an  attractive  accomplishment 
for  the  farmers'  and  labourers'  daughters  all  around  the 
locality,  and  the  servants  in  the  houses  of  the  gentry; 
but  she  was  credited  with  the  dread  supernatural  powers 
of  the  evil  eye,  with  all  its  usual  accompaniments  of 
pishogues,  sterilized  milk,  cattle-maiming,  etc.  She  had 
been  sternly  denounced  for  her  evil  practices  by  the  parish 
priest,  for  which  she  stored  up  in  her  dark  mind  many  a 
legacy  of  hate  and  revenge;  but  her  power  over  the  peas- 
antry remained  unquestioned,  and  Jude  the  Witch  became 
a  formidable  factor  for  evil  in  the  parish. 

All  this  power  for  evil,  too,  was  accentuated  by  the 
now  frequent  apparitions  of  the  Doctor's  deceased  wife 
in  and  around  Dunkerrin  Castle.  Sometimes  she  appeared 
at  one  of  the  windows  looking  toward  the  upland  fields 
and  the  hill;  sometimes  she  appeared  on  the  very  crest 
of  the  castle  battlements,  a  tall,  thin,  shadowy  figure, 
standing  out  against  the  dark  background  of  the  sea  like 
a  statue  of  white  marble.  Sometimes,  the  fishermen, 
coming  back  from  the  mackerel  grounds,  saw  a  boat, 
propelled  by  neither  sail,  nor  scull,  nor  oar,  nor  earthly 
hand,  but  there  always  was  that  white  figure  standing 
in  the  stern.     And  sometimes  they  saw  another  boat^ 


ROHIRA  55 

not  built  like  their  coracles,  but  much  stronger  and  more 
seaworthy,  and  it  seemed  to  be  driven  by  no  human  hand 
up  the  dark  defile  of  waters,  and  fire  gleamed  around  its 
prows,  and  flames  shone  in  its  wake.  And  it  seemed  to 
be  projected  out  of  the  side  of  a  great  hulk,  that  would 
loom  suddenly  out  of  the  darkness,  and  as  quickly  dis- 
appear; and  no  voice  of  hail  or  warning  was  ever  heard, 
nor  did  the  waves  suck  round  its  prow,  and  there  was  no 
flap  of  canvas,  nor  creak  of  mast,  but  such  silence  on  the 
seas  as  comes  not  from  mortal  man  or  duly  registered 
schooner  or  brigantine.  And  so  everything  in  and  around 
Dunkerrin  Castle  and  the  more  modern  Rohira  mansion 
was  gradually  wrapped  in  a  sombre  mist  of  mystery; 
and  the  superstitious  peasantry  all  along  the  coast,  and 
far  into  the  interior  of  the  country,  had  long  since  decided 
that  it  were  wise  to  give  such  places  and  people  a  wide 
berth,  and  as  much  sea-room  as  possible. 

When  the  two  boys  reached  home  in  the  growing  dusk 
of  that  December  afternoon,  and  had  sat  down  to  dinner, 
they  could  hardly  explain  to  their  father  the  surprising 
offer  made  by  the  priest  in  the  school  that  day. 

"  Yes,  I  understand  he  is  an  exceedingly  clever  man," 
said  Dr.  Wycherly,  musing  on  the  strange  proposition, 
"  an  exceedingly  clever  man.  But  it  is  a  singular  invita- 
tion, a  singular  invitation." 

"Well,  you  see.  Pap,"  said  Jack  Wycherly,  "you  won't 
teach  us  Latin,  though  I've  asked  you  a  hundred  times; 
and  you  don't  want  to  let  us  go  away,  as  long  as  you  can 
help  it.  And  I'm  getting  pretty  advanced.  Dion  can 
wait  —  " 

"Can  I,  indeed?"  said  Dion,  with  his  mouth  full.  "I 
tell  you  I  can't  wait.  I  don't  know  what  good  is  Latin 
or  Greek  to  me,  because  I'll  be  captain  of  a  ship,  or  nothing. 
But  perhaps  Dr.  Gray  would  coach  me  in  science.  These 
old  chaps  know  everything.  You  see  they  have  nothing 
to  do  but  read,  read,  read." 

"  You  mustn't  speak  in  that  way  of  a  clergyman,"  said 


56  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

his  father,  mildly  expostulating.  "It's  not  right,  my 
boy,  no  matter  what  persuasion  they  belong  to." 

"Oh,  I  meant  no  harm,  Pap,"  said  Dion.  "But  I 
know  that  this  old  —  old  clergyman  is  awfully  fond  of 
Mensuration  and  Euclid  and  these  things.  I  saw  him 
teaching  a  young  fellow  how  to  measure  the  whole  school- 
ground  with  his  eye.  The  master  taped  it  afterwards, 
and  it  was  right  to  the  inch." 

"Yes!"  said  his  father  gravely.  "But  the  question  is 
now,  what  right  have  we  to  trespass  on  this  clergyman's 
time?     It  is  very  good  of  him  to  make  the  offer  —  " 

"Oh,  so  far  as  that,"  said  Jack  Wycherly,  "I  guess 
he's  only  doing  it  to  fret  the  Catholics  who  are  kicking 
against  him.  The  boys  were  all  kept  away  to-day;  and 
I  suppose  they  won't  come  now  till  after  the  Christmas 
holidays." 

"Why?"  said  his  father.  "What's  up  now?  Has  he 
got  a  new  fight  on  his  hands?" 

"Yes!  They  want  him  to  dismiss  the  teacher,  because 
his  uncle  took  the  farm  here  at  Crossfields.  He  says  he 
won't  dismiss  him.     They  say  he  must,  and  no  thanks." 

"  I  think  you'd  better  let  us  go,  Dad,"  said  Dion.  "  It 
will  be  rare  fun,  studying  with  such  a  schoolmaster,  though 
I  suppose  he'll  lick  the  hfe  out  of  us.  They  say  he's  the 
devil  when  he  gets  into  a  temper." 

"  The  man  at  least  is  sticking  up  now  for  law  and  order. 
Yes!   I  think  I'll  let  you  go.     Did  he  say  'to-night'?" 

"  Yes!  And  he's  to  procure  all  the  books,  pens,  pencils, 
ink,  paper,  and  stationery.  And  he  says  that  we  were 
to  tell  you  that  he  won't  say  a  word  about  religion.  Isn't 
that  square  and  honest?" 

"  It  is.  Although,  my  dear  boys,  I  fear  you  both  have 
not  much  religion  to  be  tampered  with." 

"  No  matter,  Pap.  At  least,  we  stand  for  a  free  Bible, 
Queen  and  Constitution.     Hip!     Hip!     Hurrah!" 

"Well,  go  ahead,"  said  his  father.  "I'm  of  opinion 
that  teacher  and  pupils  will  soon  tire  of  the  experiment. 
But  I  suppose  no  harm  can  come  of  it." 


CHAPTER  VI 

The  List  of  Improvements 

"Now,  let  me  see!"  said  Dr.  William  Gray.  "H'm! 
what's  this?  The  Bishop's  letter!  Why  it  was  the  list 
of  improvements  I  wanted." 

"They're  on  the  other  side,  sir!"  said  Henry  trembling. 
"I  had  to  use  the  Bishop's  letter." 

"And  I'm  sure  his  Lordship  would  be  much  compli- 
mented if  he  knew  that  his  note-paper  with  all  its  mitres 
and  cardinal's  hats  were  used  for  such  a  purpose.  But  no 
matter." 

He  took  a  good,  large  pinch  of  snuff  here  as  if  to  put 
the  profanity  out  of  court,  and  continued: 

Dining-room.  —  To  be  newly  papered  in  maroon.' 
What's  'maroon'?" 

Henry  Listen  looked  up  at  the  ceiling,  and  around  at  the 
bookcases,  and  finally  brought  back  his  wandering  gaze 
to  the  face  of  his  pastor,  which  was  steadily  and  sternly 
turned  toward  the  window. 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Henry  at  length.  "I 
suppose  'tis  some  kind  of  colour." 

"Then,  if  you  didn't  know  what  it  was,  why  did  you 
put  it  there?  Look  out  in  that  dictionary  to  see  if  there 
is  such  a  word." 

With  something  not  quite  like  a  blessing  for  the  inge- 
nuity of  his  predecessor,  Henry  looked  out  for  "  maroon," 
and  read: 

"'Maroon'  —  [French,  marron,  runaway,  from  Spanish  cimarron, 
wild,  unruly,  from  cima  (Fr.  cime)  the  top  of  a  hill.]  A  name  for 
fugitive  slaves,  or  their  descendants  in  the  West  India  Islands,  and 
Guiana.  —  Pret.  and  pp.  marooned,  to  put  ashore,  and  abandon  on 
a  deserted  island,  as  was  done  with  buccaneers." 

57 


58  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"H'm.  Very  good,"  said  the  pastor,  grimly  smiling, 
whilst  Henry  looked  the  picture  of  confusion.  "I  see, 
you  consider  yourself  marooned  here  —  cast  ashore  on 
a  desolate  and  lonely  place,  away  from  the  civilization 
which  you  are  so  well  qualified  to  adorn.  H'm.  The 
Bishop  must  soon  construct  parishes  to  please  our  ambi- 
tious young  men.  Athboy  and  Lackagh  are  no  fit  places 
for  up-to-date  curates  —  " 

"Here  it  is!  Here  it  is!"  said  Henry,  with  a  shout  of 
relief.  'Maroon — A  brownish-crimson,  or  claret  colour; 
a  rocket  used  in  displays  of  fireworks.'  I  knew  it  was  a 
colour." 

"  And  a  rocket,"  said  his  pastor,  sententiously.  "  Some- 
thing that  goes  up  with  a  fizz  and  a  sparkle,  and  comes 
down  a  stick.     H'm!  we'll  strike  out  that  item,  I  think!" 

And  he  drew  a  broad  blue  pencil  across  the  words. 

" '  Wood-work,  window-shutters,  doors,  to  be  painted 
in  faint  pink;  panels  in  rose-colour.'  H'm!  that  may  go 
too!" 

And  he  drew  his  pencil  across  the  page. 

''Now  let  me  see!"  he  continued,  taking  another  pinch 
of  snuff  to  fortify  himself.  '' '  Drawing-room '  —  of  course, 
opening  upon  a  boudoir,  settees,  fauteuils,  pictures  of 
actresses  and  winning  horses,  etc.  Pious  pictures  now 
relegated  to  servants'  apartments.  Well,  let  us  see!  'To 
be  papered  white,  with  chrysanthemum-leaves  in  gray. 
All  the  wood-work  to  be  painted  white;  panels  in  pale 
blue  or  green.'" 

That  'chrysanthemum-leaf  appeared  to  knock  the  old 
man  almost  speechless,  for  he  began  to  murmur  as  if 
his  senses  were  just  leaving  him:  "'Chrysanthemum- 
leaf,  chiysanthemum-leaf!'  My  God!  And  has  it  come 
to  this?" 

He  ran  rapidly  down  the  remaining  items,  merely 
catching  the  leading  words,  —  "French-gray,"  "panels," 
"architraves,"  "in  lavender,"  "sea-green,"  etc. 

Then  he  laid  down  the  paper,  and,  turning  round,  he 
looked  long  and  earnestly  at  his  curate,  who,  with  eyes 


THE  LIST  OF  IMPROVEMENTS  59 

cast  down,  was  longing  for  the  ground  to  open  and  swal- 
low him. 

"  You  have  not  made  any  mention  here,"  he  said  at 
length,  his  Hps  curving  in  scorn,  "of  a  piano.  Surely 
in  this  advanced  age  you  cannot  get  on  without  a  piano, 
and  a  revolving  stool,  and  a  music  wagon?" 

"I  have  one!"  said  the  curate  faintly.  "I  want  one. 
[  can't  do  without  it.  In  the  long,  lonely  winter  nights, 
when  there  isn't  a  human  being  within  miles  that  you 
could  speak  to,  you  must  have  some  resource,  or  go  mad." 

"Haven't  you  your  theology,  and  your  rubrics,  and 
your  Canon  Law  to  study?  Are  not  these  resources  — 
the  only  legitimate  resources  for  a  priest?" 

There  was  no  answer;  and  he  turned  to  the  paper  again. 

"'Back  bedrooms,  staircases,  etc.,  etc.,  to  he  left  to 
the  option  of  the  pastor'!" 

"To  be  left  to  the  option  of  the  pastor!  Yes!  To 
be  left  to  the  option  of  the  pastor!  Excellent.  Unique. 
Original  in  its  insolence  and  contempt." 

The  paper  was  now  a  blurred  sheet  of  white  and  blue 
lines,  item  after  item  having  been  struck  out  remorse- 
lessly by  the  blue  pencil  with  which  the  old  man  not  only 
erased  the  writing,  but  positively  tore  the  paper.  Then, 
after  a  long  pause  he  said: 

"  I'll  let  you  know  later  on  what  my  intentions  are 
about  the  matter." 

This  seemed  a  dimissorial  note,  and  the  curate  rose  to 
go.  But  the  pastor  detained  him,  and  bade  him  be 
seated.  Then,  he  said  in  a  gentle  tone  that  startled 
Henry  a  great  deal  more  than  his  angry  sarcasm: 

"Henry,  I  knew  your  father  and  mother  well.  They 
were  decent,  pious  Catholics,  God-fearing,  honourable 
in  their  dealings,  simple  in  their  lives,  charitable  in  every 
action.  They  would  turn  in  their  graves  if  they  thought 
that  their  son,  a  priest  of  God,  would  indulge  in  such 
vagaries  as  this.  The  oil  that  consecrated  you  a  minister 
of  Christ  is  hardly  dry  on  your  hands;  it  is  only  a  little 
while  since  you  said,  (I  hope  with  all  the  sincerity  of  a 


60  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

pious  Levite) :  Dominus  pars  haereditatis  meae  et  calicis 
mei  —  " 

"  Why,  I  have  been  seven  years  on  the  English  mission, 
and  twelve  months  chaplain  at  home,"  said  Henry,  who 
did  not  know  whether  he  ought  to  be  angry  or  cry.  He 
was  deeply  hurt  by  that  allusion  to  his  parents;  and  he 
was  beginning  to  feel  that  he  had  embarked  upon  wrong 
courses. 

"Ah,  yes!  that  English  mission!"  said  his  pastor,  with 
a  sigh.  "Many  and  many  a  time,"  he  continued,  with 
his  fingers  stretched  out  like  a  fan,  "  I  said  to  the  Bishop, 
'Keep  your  priests  at  home,  or  let  them  go  for  ever. 
Keep  them  at  home,  and  let  them  learn  their  duty,  and 
study  their  theology  under  the  venerable  priests  of  the 
diocese.'  But  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  And  here 
now,"  he  continued  abstractedly,  as  if  his  curate  were 
not  concerned,  "we  have  a  lot  of  little  creatures  coming 
back  to  us,  with  their  nice  accents,  their  lace  surplices, 
the  gold  watch  of  course,  and  —  a  piano;  but  with  no 
more  knowledge  in  their  heads  of  theology  than  so  many 
Freshmen  in  Maynooth.  And,"  he  snorted,  "that's  not 
the  worst.  But  they  have  come  to  despise  theology,  and 
to  rank  it  beneath  some  little  rubrics  and  ceremonies, 
and  taking  off  their  hats  to  ladies,  and  keeping  their 
kid  gloves  well  buttoned.  And  these  are  the  soldiers 
that  are  to  fight  the  battles  that  are  looming  up  before  the 
Church  of  the  future.  Look  how  things  are  going  on 
here;  and  they  are  only  symptomatic  of  the  deeper 
disease.  What  will  these  people  care  about  your  'rose- 
colour'  and  'pink-blues'  and  'maroons'  and  'chrysan- 
themum '  and  your  kid-gloving  and  piano-tinkling?  They 
fear  me,  but  they  will  despise  you." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  his  curate,  "there  is  some  fallacy 
somewhere;  but  I  can't  put  my  finger  upon  it." 

"  Yes,  there  is,"  said  his  pastor.  "  The  fallacy  of  for- 
getting that  we  profess  to  be  disciples  of  Him  who  had 
not  whereon  to  lay  His  head." 

"Well,  but  if  you  carry  out  that  idea,"  said  Henry, 


THE  LIST  OF  IMPROVEMENTS  61 

plucking  up  courage,  "to  be  consistent  you  should  give 
up  your  books  and  your  library,  and  —  and  —  "he  looked 
around  for  something  else  to  catch  at,  "  and  all  your  own 
domestic  comfort,  and  go  out,  and  live  in  a  limekiln." 

There  is  a  strong  suspicion  that  Henry  had  some  latent 
sting  in  that  last  expression,  but  he  looked  very  innocent 
and  humble.  The  pastor  did  not  notice  anything.  He 
was  engrossed  by  one  idea. 

"By  no  means,"  he  said.  "There  is  a  clear  line  of 
demarcation  drawn  between  the  necessaries  of  life  and 
its  superfluities.  Books  are  necessaries  to  a  priest  —  at 
least,  that  was  the  old  idea  that  has  come  down  to  us 
from  generations.  Probably  'maroon  wall-paper,'  and 
'chrysanthemum-leaves,'  and  'pale-pinks,'  and  'French- 
grays,'  and  'Champagne  Charlie'  waltzes  will  now  take 
their  place.  But,  believe  me,  the  old  ideas  were  not  far 
wrong.     I  remember  well  —  " 

But  here  the  old  housekeeper  knocked,  and  coming  in, 
announced  the  presence  of  two  young  gentlemen  who 
wanted  to  see  the  parish  priest. 

"Two  young  gentlemen?"  he  said,  not  at  all  pleased 
at  being  disturbed,  just  as  he  was  launching  forth  on 
the  seas  of  pleasant  or  vain  reminiscences.  "Who  can 
they  be?" 

"They  are  the  two  young  gentlemen  from  the  'Great 
House,'"  said  his  housekeeper.  "They  say  you  were 
speaking  with  them  to-day." 

"Oh,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  old  man,  recalling  his  in- 
vitation. "Send  them  in!  These  are  the  two  young 
Wycherlys." 

He  seemed  to  be  half-ashamed  before  his  curate  for 
such  condescension  to  heretics;  but  he  welcomed  the  lads 
cheerfully,  brought  them  over  near  the  fire,  and  said: 

"  Your  father,  then,  had  no  objection  to  your  coming?" 

"Oh,  not  the  least,  sir!"  said  Jack,  the  elder.  "He 
is  awfully  pleased.  He  says  he  has  forgotten  all  about 
his  classics.  The  sea  air  and  knocking  about  the  world 
has  driven  everything  out  of  his  head." 


62  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Not  everything!"  said  the  old  man.  "If  I  am  to 
judge  by  his  kindness  to  the  poor,  he  seems  to  have  kept 
a  good  deal  of  knowledge  of  his  science,  besides  a  large 
amount  of  benevolence." 

He  paused  a  moment,  as  if  not  knowing  where  to  begin, 
before  he  said: 

"  Well,  now,  to  carry  out  our  programme!  Where  shall 
we  begin?  Of  course,  you  understand  the  object  of  learn- 
ing the  ancient  classics?" 

"Of  course,  sir,"  said  Jack.     "To  pass  the  matric." 

"Well,"  said  Dr.  Gray,  "that  is  the  utilitarian  view 
of  the  matter.  But  there  is  a  higher  object.  Can  you 
guess?  " 

"To  be  able  to  write  a  prescription  like  Pap,"  said 
the  matter-of-fact  Dion. 

"That  again  is  utilitarian,"  said  the  pastor.  "What 
would  you  think  of  getting  a  golden  key  to  unlock  the 
treasures  of  antiquity?" 

"I  say  it  would  be  right  jolly,"  said  Dion,  "that  is, 
if  the  treasures  are  worth  having." 

"Well  said,"  replied  the  old  man.  "Did  you  ever  read 
the  Arabian  Nights?  " 

"1  read  Sinbad  the  Sailor,"  said  Jack.  "I  got  it  some- 
where after  our  Ned,  who  went  away  to  sea." 

"An'  I  read  Aladdin,  or  the  Wonderful  Lamp,"  said 
Dion.  "Ah,  that's  right  jolly.  But  it's  nothing  to 
Cooper's  Pilot,  or  any  of  Captain  Marryat's.  Did  you 
ever  read  Snarleyyowf  That's  a  ripping  story.  Give 
me  a  tight  brig,  wind  right  astern,  a  good  sea,  and  a  jolly 
crew  —  and  I'll  sail  the  world  ten  times  over.  And  if  we 
can  come  across  a  slaver,  or  a  pirate,  with  the  black  flag 
and  cross-bones  aloft,  I'd  send  a  seven-pound  shot  across 
her  bows,  and  make  her  bear  up  to  have  her  papers  ex- 
amined. Then,  if  they  were  wrong,  I'd  put  captain  and 
crew  in  irons." 

"H'm!"  said  the  old  man,  admiring  this  juvenile 
rhapsody  (whilst  Henry  Liston  smiled  at  the  absurdity 
of  the  thing),  "we  must  get  you  on  to  Virgil  at  once  so 


THE  LIST  OF  IMPROVEMENTS  63 

that  you  may  read  of  his  voyages,  and  then  to  the  Odys- 
sey for  Ulysses.  But  the  reason  I  mentioned  the  Arabian 
Nights  was  this.  There  is  some  story  where  he  speaks 
of  countless  treasures  kept  in  a  cave,  the  doors  of  which 
will  only  spring  back  at  mention  of  one  magic  word: 
Sesame!  Now,  I  want  you  both  to  command  the  treas- 
ures of  Greek  and  Roman  literature  by  learning  the  Greek 
and  Latin  grammar,  and  the  magic  words  that  will  open 
up  for  you  the  caves  of  the  mighty  ancients." 

"  You  see,"  he  went  on,  taking  a  huge  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  addressing  in  imagination  a  much  larger  audience 
than  that  which  was  listening  to  him,  "  all  modern  notions 
of  education  are  wrong,  because  they  are  purely  utilitarian. 
You  know  what  the  word  ' utilitarian'  means,  I  suppose?" 

Jack  shook  his  head  and  looked  at  the  table.  Dion 
shook  his  head,  and  looked  in  a  rather  comical  manner  at 
Father  Liston. 

"No!  Well,  'utilitarian'  means,  what  is  devoted, 
primarily  and  principally,  to  some  —  well,  to  some  per- 
sonal or  lower  advantage,  what  is  generally  called  advance- 
ment in  life.  That  is,  a  young  medical  student  wants  to 
read  classics  because  he  has  to  compound  medicines;  a 
lawyer,  because  there  are  so  many  words  in  legal  books, 
all  derived  from  the  classics;  a  priest,  because  he  has  to 
read  Latin  during  his  whole  life.  Now,  that's  not  the 
highest  motive;  and  I  hate  to  see  the  classics  turned  into 
a  kind  of  bread-winning  machine  by  those  who  don't  care 
for  their  beauties  and  sublimities.  Now,  I'd  like  you, 
young  gentlemen,  to  conceive  such  a  love  for  the  classics 
that  you'd  think  it  a  penance  and  a  punishment  to  be 
compelled  to  read  Cooper  or  Marryat  or  any  of  those  silly 
and  absurd  writers,  vvhose  books  are  so  many  potboilers, 
thrown  out  to  make  money  by  silly  boys  and  girls.  Do 
you  quite  follow  me?" 

Jack  turned  his  pale  face  away.  Dion,  more  coura- 
geous, said: 

"I'm  afraid,  sir,  you  have  never  read  a  real,  rousing 
novel.     Of  course,  they're  beyond  you  —  that  is,  you're 


64  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

beyond  them.     But  I'd  rather  read  Marryat  than  eat 
butter-scotch,  and  butter-scotch  is  ripping,  too!" 

"  You'll  grow  out  of  that,"  said  the  old  man,  smiling. 
"  But,  to  come  back,  there  was  the  advantage  of  the  old 
hedge-schools  over  your  modern  academies,  with  all  their 
noise  and  boasting.  Under  a  roof  of  sods,  and  seated  on 
a  bench  of  sods,  the  old  hedge-schoolmaster,  who  loved 
his  work,  used  to  read  out  long  passages  from  Virgil  and 
Homer;  and  when  he  had  hypnotized  the  boys,  he  then 
translated  for  them;  and  he  made  them  mad,  downright 
mad  to  be  able  themselves  to  translate.  Hence,  a  gener- 
ation of  scholars,  —  peasants  and  even  labourers  talking 
Latin  in  the  fields;  and  every  gentleman  capable  of 
quoting  Horace  at  will.  Now,  if  you  were  to  ask  a  stu- 
dent or  collegian  to  write  a  line  in  Latin,  he  would  have 
to  hunt  up  twenty  dictionaries  for  the  words.  But,  I  am 
delaying  you.  Father  Liston,  would  you  get  down  that 
Latin  grammar  —  Valpy's,  and  show  the  young  gentle- 
men the  First  Declension." 

Thus  commenced  their  first  lesson.  They  told  their 
father  when  they  went  home  that  Dr.  William  Gray  was 
a  "jolly  old  chap,"  and  that  he  had  a  lot  of  queer  books 
bound  in  shoe-leather,  in  which  all  the  s's  were  f's,  and 
the  word  "  and  "  was  expressed  by  a  figure  for  all  the  world 
like  a  twisted  constrictor.  He  was  pleased;  and  hoped 
they  were  polite.  They  assured  him  they  were  almost 
young  Chesterfields. 


CHAPTER  VII 

Raptures  and  Remorse 

There  are  few  spirits,  if  we  except  those  who  live  under 
the  dead  weight  of  habitual  depression,  who  do  not  ex- 
perience at  least  a  few  times  during  life  a  kind  of  spiritual 
rapture  or  ecstasy  that  lifts  them  altogether  out  of  the 
common  ruts  of  existence,  and  places  them  on  the  summit 
of  the  everlasting  hills.  A  certain  poet  has  placed  such 
raptures  in  the  pathless  woods,  on  the  lonely  shore,  and 
even  in  the  solitude  where  no  voice  of  man  breaks  in  to 
drown  with  its  raucous  whisperings  the  musical  silence 
of  Nature.  The  sick  man  who,  leaving  the  heavily- 
laden  atmosphere  of  his  chamber,  stretches  forth  his 
arms  to  the  blue  heavens,  and  drinks  in  long,  deep  draughts 
of  sweet,  cold  air,  knows  what  rapture  means.  The  artist 
soul,  that  stands  for  the  first  time  before  a  noble  picture, 
is  cognizant  of  it.  The  musician,  who  improvises  on  his 
organ  in  the  midst  of  imagined  angel-presences,  knows 
the  exaltation.  The  poet,  who  has  been  suddenly  smitten 
by  a  great  thought,  or  to  whose  lips  a  great  line  has  arisen, 
walks  upon  air  for  evermore,  upheld  by  the  serene  exalta- 
tion which  the  consciousness  of  having  created  some  un- 
dying beauty  produces. 

And  yet,  it  is  just  possible  that  all  these  sudden,  if 
serene,  pleasures  are  nothing  compared  with  the  gentle 
happiness  of  a  lonely  student,  who,  cut  away  from  the 
world,  and  in  the  sublime  aloofness  of  intellectual  exer- 
cises, bends  over  some  mighty  folio  at  midnight,  and  fol- 
lows by  the  light  of  his  lamp  the  magnificent  processes 
of  thought  by  which  great  theologians  or  philosophers 
cut  their  laborious  and  toilsome  way  through  labyrinths  of 
6  65 


66  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

such  vastness  and  intricacy  that  a  faint  mind  refuses  to 
follow,  and  perhaps  leaves  them  in  their  search  with  a 
certain  contempt  for  their  persistency.  It  would  be 
difficult  to  convince  the  outer  world  of  Philistines  of 
this.  There  appears  to  be  a  mutual  and  irreconcilable 
antagonism  between  theology  and  literature.  Once  and 
again  a  George  Eliot  may  study  Petavius  as  an  intellectual 
exercise,  as  a  certain  Irish  Lord  Chancellor  used  to  carry 
Tertullian  with  him  on  his  holidays.  And  with  some- 
thing like  consternation  the  world  heard  of  a  Coventry 
Patmore  taking  up  his  gorgeous  vellum-bound  Summa 
in  his  old  age  to  find  there  new  and  vaster  material  for 
an  Unknown  Eros.  But  there  has  been  amidst  the 
myriads  but  one  vast  intellect  which  wedded  poetry  to 
Philosophy  and  Theology,  and  entrained  Aquinas  and 
Aristotle  in  the  service  of  the  Muses;  and  that  was  the 
poet  who  stands  alone  and  pre-eminent  —  Dante.  But 
the  man  of  letters  looks  up  to  the  lonely  watch-tower 
where  the  theologian  is  bending  over  his  oak-bound, 
brass-clasped  folio,  and  mutters:  "A  horned  owlet,  blink- 
ing his  bleared  eyes  and  flapping  his  cut  wings  by  moon- 
light in  a  dismantled  ruin";  and  the  theologian,  looking 
down  from  his  lofty  eyrie  on  the  "  man  of  letters, "  mutters : 
"A  popinjay  with  borrowed  feathers,  chirping  some 
ribald  chorus  in  the  market-place."  No  one  appears 
to  understand  that  there  is  poetry  —  the  very  highest 
and  most  supernal  poetic  inspiration  in  these  musty 
medieval  foHos;  and  no  one  appears  to  understand  that 
underlying  the  music  and  magic  of  modern  poetry  there 
may  be  hidden  some  deep  theological  truths  or  untruths, 
which  perhaps  it  would  be  not  altogether  unwise  to  learn 
or  unlearn.  But,  whilst  the  contempt  of  moderns  for 
what  they  are  pleased  to  designate  mediaevalism  is  a 
conceit  bred  from  a  sad  and  incurable  ignorance,  it  must 
be  admitted  that  theologians  and  high  philosophers  are 
not  altogether  wise  in  making  their  own  sciences  occult 
and  unintelligible.  The  Catholic  theologian  is  the  richest 
merchant,  but  the  poorest  shopkeeper,  in  the  world.     He 


RAPTURES   AND   REMORSE  67 

has  countless  riches,  but  he  does  not  know  how  to  use  or 
display  them.  He  has  all  kinds  of  antique  and  Oriental 
treasures,  bales  of  costly  goods,  diamonds  of  Golconda, 
topazes  of  Persia,  spoils  and  seizures  from  Greece,  the 
flotsam  and  jetsam  from  all  the  wrecked  argosies  of  an- 
cient and  modern  times;  but  he  does  not  know  how  to 
dress  his  shop  window.  He  keeps  his  treasures  like  some 
vastly  wealthy  and  usurious  Jew  in  some  secret  bazaar  in 
a  white-walled  and  isolated  city  of  the  East.  It  takes  a 
long  time  to  travel  thither;  and  men  nowadays  will  not 
make  pilgrimages  after  wisdom.  And  then  when  you 
get  there,  you  must  have  a  magic  password  before  you 
see  the  caves  opened  where  are  hidden  the  treasures  that 
surpass  the  dreams  of  all  the  half-inspired  writers  of  the 
world.  Some  day,  one  of  those  genii,  better  taught  by 
the  gods,  will  reveal,  and  place  beneath  the  hands  of 
men  those  spoils  and  treasures  of  the  ages,  as  a  Layard 
has  laid  bare  the  colossal  sculptures  of  Nineveh,  or  a  Huys- 
mans  in  our  own  day  has  taught  the  world  the  meaning 
of  the  cryptic  symbolism  that  underlies  every  plinth  and 
capital,  statue  and  gargoyle,  stained-glass  glories  or  twi- 
light nooks,  in  Chartres  Cathedral.  For  the  present, 
however,  these  vast  relics  of  mediaevalism  are  the  exclu- 
sive right  of  lonely  thinkers,  who  hold  possession,  because 
alone  capable  of  their  usufruct;  and  these  lonely  students, 
keeping  watch  and  ward  over  the  strong-rooms  and  safes 
of  Divine  Thought,  are  few  and  far  between. 

One  at  least  we  know  —  the  pastor  of  Doonvarragh. 
He  had  got  the  key  of  these  treasures  in  the  college  where 
he  studied;  and  he  did  not  allow  it  to  rust.  For  forty 
years,  almost  without  intermission,  he  had  given  his 
evening  hours  to  the  study  of  theology  and  philosophy. 
There  in  that  lonely  room,  which  served  as  library  and 
dining-room,  he  sat  at  his  desk,  night  after  night,  some 
ponderous  folio  before  him,  his  lamp  or  candles  by  his 
side;  and  there  he  plunged  with  all  the  raptures  of  a 
strong  thinker  into  those  reveries  which  haunted  the 
brains  of  Spanish  or  Italian  thinkers  before  the  Crusaders 


68  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

set  foot  in  Palestine,  or  the  Moors  had  brought  into  Spain 
the  works  and  the  spirit  of  the  most  subtle  mind  that  even 
Greece  could  produce.  And,  with  the  consciousness  that 
he  had  done  his  duty  to  the  sick  and  poor  during  the  day, 
he  had  never  a  scruple  of  giving  his  nights  to  such  intel- 
lectual revelry;  and  when  his  deep  hall-clock  tolled  out 
the  midnight  hour,  he  could  arise  from  his  seat  with  an 
0  Altitudo!  on  his  lips,  and  seek  fearlessly  that  slumber 
which  he  knew  so  well  might  be  the  prelude,  as  it  was  the 
presentment,  of  that  deeper  sleep,  called  Death. 

But  just  as  a  patient  who  can  lie  only  in  one  position 
may  develop  pneumonia,  so  this  habit  had  produced  in 
the  mind  of  this  man  two  dangerous  maladies  that  were 
now  well-nigh  incurable.  The  one  was  a  certain  una- 
vowed  contempt  for  feeble  thinkers  or  intellectual  com- 
moners. The  other  was  a  peculiar  sensitiveness,  through 
which  every  accident  that  interrupted  the  splendid  and 
silent  harmony  of  these  nocturnal  studies  jarred  upon 
his  nerves,  and  broke  up  the  serenity  that  could  alone 
render  them  pleasant  and  fruitful.  Undoubtedly,  much 
contact  with  the  great  minds  of  the  world  does  beget 
some  disdain  for  ordinaiy  mortals ;  and  it  is  slightly  aggra- 
vating to  be  told  by  those  who  have  acquired  such  habits 
and  reputations  that  all  things  else  are  the  toys  of  children, 
or  the  weapons  of  demons.  But  if  an  ordinary  mortal 
ventures  on  the  sacred  precincts,  and  with  all  humility 
and  bowed  head  tries  to  worship  at  the  same  shrines,  he 
is  instantly  regarded  as  an  intruder  and  a  trespasser, 
and  told  to  carry  his  incense  and  orisons  to  other  tem- 
ples. This,  however,  is  but  a  human  failing,  the  autocracy 
and  conservatism  that  are  generated  by  caste  or  genius. 

The  other  consequence  touches  our  story  in  a  more 
intimate  manner.  Dr.  William  Gray,  after  forty  years 
of  solitary  study,  had  become  keenly  intolerant  of  human 
intercourse.  His  nerves  had  become  trained  to  such 
exquisite  delicacy  by  silence  and  the  solemn  quiet  of  mid- 
night hours,  that  he  had  become  morbidly  sensitive  to 
anything  that  could  break  in  upon  his  habits,  or  disturb 


RAPTURES  AND  REMORSE  69 

that  happy  monotone  of  existence  that  had  now  become 
part  and  parcel  of  his  Hfe.  But  these  things  are  not 
absolutel}^  in  one's  own  power,  for  we  cannot  control 
our  circumstances;  and  sometimes  the  music  of  hfe  jarred 
with  sudden  and  discordant  notes.  For  example,  he 
found  that  just  now  in  his  sixty-third  year  his  eyes  were 
getting  somewhat  dim.  Little  clouds  would  come  before 
them  —  tiny  wisps  of  darkness,  which  he  could  not  rub 
away.  Again  and  again  he  had  changed  his  spectacles 
to  suit  advancing  years;  but  it  seemed  of  no  avail.  For 
a  time  the  dear  old  characters  would  come  out  clear  and 
beautiful  as  ever,  and  then  they  would  become  cloudy 
and  misty,  and  little  aches  and  pains  would  shoot  athwart 
his  forehead  and  through  his  eyes;  and  he  would  rise  up 
sad  and  disheartened  to  think,  but  not  to  read. 

Then  again,  idle  people,  who  seemed  to  have  no  par- 
ticular business  in  hfe,  would  intrude  upon  his  sohtude; 
and  with  all  his  brusqueness  and  asperity,  he  could  not 
shut  the  doors  of  his  hospitahty  against  them.  But,  as 
one  of  these  visitors  irreverently  expressed  it,  "he  was 
Mke  a  hen  on  a  hot  griddle,"  till  he  got  rid  of  the  unwel- 
come intruder.  The  tyranny  of  habit  had  made  their 
presence  intolerable.  And  the  luxury  of  being  alone, 
after  such  experiences,  was  all  the  more  sweet. 

This  particular  winter  of  which  we  write,  he  had  been 
engrossed  in  a  formidable  and  well-beloved  treatise,  the 
De  Legibus  ^  of  Suarez.  It  was  a  gigantic  folio,  grimly 
bound  in  brown  leather,  and  to  an  ordinary  mind  those 
seven  hundred  and  fifty  pages,  each  with  its  double 
column  of  close  print,  twelve  or  fourteen  inches  long, 
would  be  a  solemn  deterrent.  Not  so  with  Dr.  WilUam 
Gray.  He  revelled  in  these  dry  and  forbidding  abstrac- 
tions, —  Origin  of  Laws,  natural,  civil,  and  canonical; 
their  force,  their  stringency,  their  solemnity;  the  abro- 
gation, suspension  or  dispensation  in  laws;  the  rights  of 
privilege  and  how  far  they  extend;  custom  and  the  laws 
of  nations,  etc.,  etc.;  and  he  enjoyed  the  subject  because 

1  On  Laws. 


70  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

his  own  mind  had  a  strange  affinity  with  it.  He  knew 
nothing  but  Law;  Law  was  to  him  the  voice  and  outer- 
most expression  of  the  mind  of  the  Eternal.  He  saw 
Law  everywhere  —  in  nature,  in  the  human  mind,  in 
rehgion,  in  the  comity  of  nations.  He  admitted  no  such 
thing  as  an  infraction  of  a  law,  or  a  dispensation.  Or,  if 
such  things  were  to  be,  they  would  by  an  infallible  and 
inexorable  sequence  bring  their  punishment.  He  be- 
lieved that  the  very  slightest  disobedience  to  the  simplest 
decree  of  God  or  man  had  its  condign  retribution;  he 
met  every  appeal  for  pity,  every  justification  for  a  broken 
commandment,  by  the  one  categorical  and  inflexible 
sentence:  It  is  the  Law! 

He  had  ploughed  half-way  through  this  mighty  laby- 
rinth of  human  thought,  when  he  plunged  into  the  horrible 
indiscretion  of  inviting  those  boys  to  study  Latin  at  his 
house.  It  was  an  impulse,  a  hasty,  foolish  act,  done  on 
the  spur  of  the  moment,  and  alas !  with  the  not  very  exalted 
motive  of  angering  his  recalcitrant  parishioners.  Like 
all  close  thinkers  he  lacked  imagination,  which  is  the 
second  factor  in  a  sound  judgment;  and  he  did  not  realize 
what  a  hideous  burden  he  had  assumed  until  the  two 
young  Wycherlys  broke  in  upon  his  conference  with  his 
curate.  Then  he  began  to  realize  what  a  torture  it  would 
be,  if,  night  after  night  for  months,  he  should  have  to  close 
that  beloved  folio,  and  come  down  to  the  level  of  their 
intellects  in  grinding  out  mensa,  mensae,  and  all  the  other 
pettinesses  of  the  Latin  Grammar.  Once  was  bad  enough. 
The  boys  were  not  stupid,  but  they  found  themselves  in 
unexpected  and  unusual  surroundings.  The  first  lesson 
was  not  a  success.  Oh!  if  it  would  only  end  there.  But 
now  he  had  given  his  word;  and  he  was  too  honourable 
a  man  to  withdraw  from  an  engagement  he  had  volun- 
tarily made.  What  was  he  to  do?  The  thing  could  not 
be  continued.  That  would  be  absolutely  intolerable.  He 
could  not  shift  it  over  on  his  curate's  shoulders.  It  would 
not  be  fair.  And  his  curate  might  reasonably  object. 
There  was  no  loophole  of  escape  from  six  months  of  tread- 


RAPTURES  AND  REMORSE  71 

mill  work,  night  after  night,  at  that  abominable  grammar; 
and  with  two  lads,  alien  in  every  way,  in  religion,  in  habits, 
in  prejudices  and  thoughts.  He  actually  groaned  aloud 
in  sheer  despair  for  what  he  had  done. 

But  this  was  not  all.  The  report  of  what  he  had  done 
had  spread  from  end  to  end  of  the  parish,  and  was  can- 
vassed with  suppressed,  but  intense,  disapproval.  It  was 
unprecedented  and,  therefore,  intolerable.  When  had  he 
done  anything  for  poor  Catholic  lads?  What  Catholic 
boy  had  he  got  into  a  situation  that  would  help  him  and 
his  family  on  in  the  world?  He  was  always  denouncing 
Protestantism;  and  now  he  opens  his  house  to  two 
Protestant  lads  to  train  them  in  those  classical  studies 
that  were  far  beyond  the  reach  of  Catholic  boys.  Where 
was  his  consistency?     Where  his  principle? 

Such,  but  in  many  modified  forms,  were  the  questions 
now  agitating  his  people,  and  discussed  sometimes  gently, 
sometimes  angrily,  sometimes  with  little  reverential  apolo- 
gies and  excuses,  sometimes  with  bitterness  and  acerbity, 
in  forge  and  workshop,  in  cabin  and  cottage,  from  end  to 
end  of  the  parish.  The  old  people,  as  a  rule,  with  all 
their  tender  reverence  for  the  sacred  character  of  the 
priesthood,  and  for  their  pastor  in  particular,  for  they 
regarded  him  always  with  a  certain  admiration  blent  with 
fear,  defended  his  action,  and  attributed  it  to  a  lawful 
desire  to  acknowledge  in  that  practical  manner  Dr. 
Wycherly's  benevolence  toward  the  poorer  members  of 
his  flock.  But  the  young,  with  all  the  fire  and  folly  of 
youth,  denounced  the  action  of  their  parish  priest  with 
fury.  They  felt  instinctively,  and  they  were  right,  that 
it  was  an  act  of  defiance  and  contempt  toward  his  flock. 

In  no  spot,  however,  in  the  three  parishes  was  the 
matter  so  hotly  discussed  as  in  the  cottage  of  the  Duggans. 
They  had  been  prime  movers  in  the  insubordination  which 
emptied  the  schools.  They  had  some  old  scores  against 
their  pastor ;  and  with  such  people  revenge  often  becomes 
a  kind  of  religion.  "  You  may  forgive,"  said  one  of  that 
class,  "  but  people  of  our  position  never  forgive."    They 


72  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

feel  a  kind  of  pride  and  glory  in  their  vindictiveness.  It 
is  a  remnant,  like  a  cromlech  or  dolman,  of  that  ancient 
Paganism  that  was  so  ruthless  and  uncompromising. 

The  family  were  gathered  around  the  fireside  one  of 
these  dark,  gloomy,  murky  days  that  herald  and  accom- 
pany Christmastide  in  Ireland.  The  father  was  not  an 
old  man  in  appearance.  He  was  well  preserved,  and 
seemed  not  more  than  fifty.  There  were  three  boys, 
ranging  from  twenty  to  thirty  years  of  age.  The  vanithee 
was  of  the  usual  gentle  but  firm,  patient,  peaceful  yet 
determined  kind  to  be  met  with  in  every  cabin  in  Ireland. 

This  evening,  when  the  subject  was  again  introduced, 
there  was  unusual  bitterness  in  their  comments.  For 
that  day,  Dick  Duggan,  the  eldest  boy,  a  dark,  silent, 
brooding  character,  had  been  ignominiously  expelled  from 
one  of  the  fields  now  occupied  by  Kerins,  the  returned 
American.  His  cattle  had  strayed  in  through  a  broken 
fence  and  he  had  followed,  when  Kerins  came  on  the 
scene.  Kerins,  who  always  boasted  that  he  was  a  lineal 
descendant  from  the  sea-rovers  and  freebooters  who  had 
given  their  name  to  the  old  castle  down  by  the  sea,  was 
a  strong,  silent,  determined  character,  who  had  seen  life 
out  on  the  American  prairies,  and  had  looked  more  than 
once  into  the  eye  of  a  rifle  or  a  revolver.  He  had  made 
money;  and  yearned  for  a  home  near  the  ancestral  castle. 
He  had  faced  cowboys  and  Indians,  and  was  not  going 
to  be  frightened  by  a  few  cowards  at  home.  He  had 
furnished  the  cottage,  laid  in  new  machinery,  borrowed 
a  few  men  from  the  Defence  Association;  and  last,  not 
least,  cleaned  and  oiled  the  "shooting  irons"  which  had 
served  him  in  good  stead  more  than  once  in  the  Rockies 
and  Sierras  of  the  West. 

When  the  cattle  had  strayed  in  through  the  open  gap, 
Dick  had  followed  lazily.  He  acted  as  if  he  had  a  kind 
of  right  over  the  place;  and  he  was  not  too  expeditious 
in  stopping  the  trespass.  He  was  rudely  awakened  by 
a  stern  voice  hissing  in  his  ear: 

"Whose  cattle  are  these?    These  yours?" 


RAPTURES  AND  REMORSE  73 

"  Yes ! "  said  Duggan.  "  They're  mine.  What  have  you 
to  say  to  them?" 

"Only  this,"  said  the  other.  "I'll  give  you  three 
minutes  to  put  them  out,  and  to  follow  them  yourself. 
If  you  or  them  are  on  my  grounds  after  three  minutes, 
I'll  blow  you  right  into  Hell!" 

And  suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  drew  out  his 
six-shooter,  and  held  it  ready. 

Dick  obeyed  in  a  sulky  manner.  Just  as  he  had  driven 
the  last  cow  through  the  gap,  Kerins  said: 

"You'd  better  close  that  gap.  I'll  not  be  quite  so 
polite  in  future." 

Dick  Duggan's  temper  was  therefore  not  quite  normal 
when  the  discussion  about  his  pastor  arose  around  the 
turf-fire  that  night. 

"There,"  said  the  old  woman,  "ye're  bringing  that  up 
agen.  What  is  it  to  ye  what  your  priest  does?  Isn't  he 
his  own  masther  to  do  what  he  likes  wid  his  own?" 

"He  is,"  sneered  one  of  the  boys.  "But  if  he  wishes 
to  open  a  night-school  for  Prodestans,  let  them  pay  him 
his  jues." 

"Does  the  ould  Doctor  get  his  jues  from  ye,  whin  ye 
takes  him  up  yere  cows  and  horses  to  cure  'em;  or  does 
he  charge  the  poor  women  who  bring  their  babies  on 
their  breasts  to  relieve  'em  and  cure  'em?"  said  his 
mother. 

"I'm  not  denying,"  said  her  husband,  "that  the  ould 
Doctor  is  a  good  man  to  the  poor.  But  what  has  that 
to  do  with  the  priesht  taking  up  his  sons  and  thraining 
'em?" 

"  Wan  good  turn  desarves  another,"  said  the  old  woman. 
"Ye  can't  be  always  gettin'  an'  never  givin'.  An'  as  ye 
haven't  much  to  give  yereselves,  ye  ought  be  obliged  to 
yere  priest  to  pay  for  ye!" 

"Twasn't  for  us  he  done  it,  believe  you  me!"  said  Dick 
Duggan.  "  It  was  to  aggrawate  and  annoy  the  people  as 
if  their  hearts  were  not  black  enough  agen  hira  before!" 

"Shpake  for  yeresclf,  you  cawbogue,"  replied  the  old 


74  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

woman  angrily.  "There's  hunderds  and  thousans  in 
the  parish  that  'ud  die  for  their  prieshts,  thank  God, 
still!" 

"There's  wan  that'll  die  for  him  or  for  thim  he's  be- 
frindin',  high  up  too,"  said  Dick  savagely,  as  he  went 
out  of  the  door,  "  av  he  don't  mend  his  ways." 

"Look  there  now,"  said  the  good  old  woman,  "there's 
the  laming  and  egication  he  got;  and  there's  what  'tis 
comin'  to.  The  ignorant  cawbogue,  as  if  he  dared  lift 
his  hand  agen  the  Lord's  anointed;  he'd  cling  him  to 
the  ground." 

There  was  the  silence  of  terror  in  the  cabin  after  this 
explosion.  After  a  long  pause,  the  old  woman  turned 
around  from  the  fire  and  asked: 

"What  did  he  mane  by  saying  'thim  he's  befriendin'?" 

"I  suppose  he  manes  the  teacher,"  said  one  of  the  boys, 
"  or  perhaps  Kerins.     They  had  a  couple  of  words  to-day." 

"Some  day,"  said  the  old  woman,  prophetically,  "the 
words  will  lade  to  blows;  and  the  blows  will  ind  badly 
for  some.  Faith,  the  wurruld  is  turning  upside  down, 
whin  people  can  shpake  that  way  about  the  ministers 
and  messengers  of  God." 

She  busied  around  for  some  time,  and  then  exclaimed, 
as  the  last  faint  peal  of  anger  died  away : 

"Thim  haythens  below  at  the  ould  castle  couldn't  be 
worse." 

It  is  quite  probable  that  all  this  angry  criticism  and 
correspondingly  zealous  defence  would  never  have  come 
to  the  ears  of  the  pastor,  had  he  not  his  ancient  mentoress 
and  Sybil  in  old  Betty  Lane.  She  alone  could  dare  tell 
him  plain  truths,  which  no  one  else  could  even  hint  at. 
And  it  was  not  very  long  until  the  opportunity  offered. 
He  was  fond  of  visiting  the  old  woman,  partly  for  the 
relief  and  amusement  her  conversation  afforded,  partly 
for  the  edification  which  even  his  priestly  spirit  derived 
from  her  active  and  vivid  faith.  There  was  something 
actually  refreshing  to  the  soul  of  this  severe  and  proud 


RAPTURES  AND  REMORSE  75 

man  in  the  childlike  and  simple  and  courageous  manner 
in  which  this  old  saint  addressed  him. 

"Well,  Betty,"  he  said,  when  the  granddaughter  had 
announced  his  presence,  "and  how  are  you  getting  on?" 

Not  a  word  of  reply  came  from  the  lips  of  the  old  woman, 
as  she  stared  silently  before  her. 

"  How  are  you  this  cold  weather?  "  he  shouted,  fearing 
she  had  not  heard  him. 

She  was  still  silent,  he  watching  her  in  surprise. 

"Yerra,  what's  this  I  hear  about  you?"  she  said  at 
length,  in  an  angry  tone  of  remonstrance. 

"What  have  you  heard,  Betty?"  he  asked,  somewhat 
nettled. 

"That  you're  taking  into  your  house  these  Prodestans 
and  taching  them  to  be  Prodestan  ministers.  Yerra, 
sure,  the  ind  of  the  world  must  be  near,  an'  Anti-Christ 
himsel'  must  be  among  us  to  make  you  do  sich  a  thing 
as  that." 

"What  harm  is  it,  Betty?"  he  said,  half-angry,  half- 
amused  at  the  interpretation  put  upon  his  action. 

"What  harrum?"  she  shouted.  "Yerra,  did  I  ever 
think  I'd  live  to  see  the  day  whin  a  priesht  would  ask 
what  harrum  was  there  in  making  prachers  and  supers 
in  the  middle  of  his  parish?" 

"  Who  told  you  I  was  making  preachers  and  supers? " 
he  said,  more  indignant  at  the  accusation  than  he  pre- 
tended. 

"  Yerra,  sure  the  whole  parish  have  it,"  she  said.  "  Be 
this  and  be  that,  I'd  never  have  you  in  agin  to  say  Mass 
for  me,  av  I  thought  it  was  thrue." 

"Very  good,"  he  said,  taking  up  his  hat,  "I  won't 
trouble  you  again.  Good-bye!  Nance,  send  for  the 
curate,  if  your  grandmother  requires  him.  Don't  send 
for  me  again!" 

He  was  leaving  the  room  in  an  angry  mood,  when  he 
turned  round  to  take  a  last  look  at  the  old  woman. 

From  the  poor  sightless  eyes,  hot,  scalding  tears  were 
running  down  the  channels  of  her  cheeks,  unchecked  and 


76  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

in  silence.  He  thought  it  was  grief  for  his  recalcitrancy, 
and  his  pride  was  hurt  that  every  ignorant  creature  in 
his  parish  should  presume  to  judge  him.  He  knew  what 
strange  fancies  they  sometimes  entertained;  how  utterly 
wrong  were  their  judgments  sometimes.  And  yet,  he 
also  felt  that  perhaps  after  all  in  the  eyes  of  All-Seeing 
Wisdom,  the  Catholic  instinct  of  these  poor  people,  inten- 
sified by  prayer  and  the  reception  of  the  sacraments,  and 
fortified  by  the  glorious  traditions  of  their  race,  might 
often  penetrate  more  deeply  into  the  truth  of  things  than 
his  own  superior  wisdom,  where  charity  and  justice  were 
not  always  the  guides. 

He  had  turned  away  again,  and  gone  down  the  road, 
fully  determined  to  break  away  from  such  positive  and 
ignorant  questioners,  when  the  granddaughter  timidly 
called  him  back.  She  had  been  summoned  peremptorily 
to  the  bedside  of  her  grandmother,  who  was  heartbroken 
at  the  idea  of  being  abandoned  by  her  beloved  priest. 

"Tell  him  come  back,"  she  said,  "and  I'll  go  down  on 
my  binded  knees  to  ax  the  Lord's  and  his  pardon  for 
having  shpoken  so  to  God's  messenger.  Quick,  Nance, 
or  I  may  die  before  he  comes!" 

He  came  back  slowly  and  reluctantly,  and  entered  the 
chamber.  The  old  woman  had  risen  up  in  bed,  and  was 
watching  through  her  sightless  eyes  for  the  faintest  indi- 
cations of  his  presence.  When  she  knew  he  was  near  her, 
she  broke  out  into  passionate  cries  of  sorrow  and  shame. 
He  listened  with  bent  head,  and  said  nothing. 

"You  won't  shpake  to  me,"  she  said.  "You  won't 
forgive  me?" 

"Yes!"  he  said  coldly.     "I  forgive  you!" 

"That's  not  What  you'd  say  if  you  meant  it!"  she  cried 
in  anguish. 

"Well,  what  am  I  to  say,  then?"  he  cried  with  some 
impatience. 

"Nothin',  nothin',"  she  said  resignedly,  and  lay  back 
on  the  pillow. 

He  left  the  room  without  a  word. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  Christmas  Gift 

It  was  Christmas  Eve.  As  is  so  usual  in  Ireland,  it  was 
a  dark,  gloomy,  rainy,  tempestuous  day;  so  dark  that  the 
priest  had  to  approach  the  high  window  of  his  dining- 
room  to  read  the  office,  for  his  sight  was  failing  with  age, 
and  it  was  dusk  or  twilight  in  the  room.  The  old  house- 
keeper had  put  little  sprigs  of  holly  in  the  candlesticks 
on  the  mantelpiece,  and  in  other  little  ways  she  had  tried 
to  mark  the  solemnity  of  the  season.  The  gray,  thought- 
ful, abstracted  man  recked  not  of  such  things  at  any  time. 
He  was  above  symbols.  He  saw  only  ideas.  He  only 
knew  his  own  thoughts;  and  well  he  should  have  known 
them,  for  they  haunted  all  his  waking  moments  with  a 
dread  persistency  of  anxiety,  or  remorse,  or  apprehension. 
The  approach  of  Christmas  meant  no  happiness  for  him. 

And  just  now  he  knew  that  to-morrow,  the  Feast  of 
Love  and  Forgiveness  and  Christian  Joy,  many  of  his 
parishioners  would  come  to  Mass  with  bitter  feelings 
against  him  in  their  hearts;  and  he  guessed  that  they 
would  show  it  by  refusing  to  pay  the  Christmas  offerings 
that  are  customary  all  over  Ireland.  This  is  the  one  act 
of  high  treason  which  marks  the  bitterest  hostility 
between  priest  and  people  in  Ireland.  It  is  an  act  of 
apostasy,  a  flinging-down  of  the  gauntlet,  the  ultimatum, 
aiid  declaration  of  hostilities. 

He  spent  his  midday  in  the  church,  hearing  confessions, 
for,  although  his  people  feared  him,  they  had  perfect  faith 
in  him  as  a  holy  and  prudent  spiritual  guide.  He  re- 
turned home  just  as  the  day  was  closing  in;  and  at  four 
o'clock  the  lamps  were  Hghted  and  the  curtains  drawn 
for  the  night. 

77 


78  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

It  was  a  fast-day,  and  he  dined  meagrely  enough  on 
a  couple  of  fried  eggs  and  a  cup  of  coffee.  The  cloth  was 
scarcely  removed,  when  the  single  knock  at  the  hall-door 
announced  the  advent  of  a  beggar,  or  one  of  the  many 
poor,  generous,  loving  souls,  who,  on  Christmas  Eve  in 
Ireland,  show  their  love  for  the  priest  by  little  donations 
of  turkeys,  geese,  etc.  He  well  knew  the  pathos  of 
it,  the  sacrifice  they  made  out  of  their  little  gains  and 
property,  and  the  shy,  sweet  delicacy  which  always 
commanded  the  housekeeper: 

"  Say  from  a  frind.     Don't  tell  him  my  name." 

But  this  knock  came  from  Nance,  old  Betty  Lane's 
granddaughter.  She  entered  the  room  shyly,  and  looked 
at  the  priest  with  frightened  reverence. 

"  I  kem  to  ask  your  Reverence  to  say  wan  of  your  three 
Masses  in  the  morning  for  me  grandmother." 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "Let  me  see!  I'll  go  over  first 
in  the  morning  and  say  my  first  Mass  at  the  house  —  no ! 
That  would  be  awkward.  I'll  finish  my  two  Masses  in 
the  church,  and  then  drive  over.     It  won't  be  too  late?" 

"Oh,  no!  yer  Reverence.  We'll  be  ready  for  you,  an' 
—  you'll  take  your  Christmas  breakfast  at  the  house." 

" Oh,  no,  no!"  he  cried.  "This  is  altogether  too  much. 
By  the  way,  how  is  Betty?  I  suppose  she'll  be  saying 
that  it  is  her  last  Christmas ! " 

"She  is  dead,  yer  Reverence!"  replied  the  girl,  turning 
aside  and  brushing  away  a  tear. 

"Dead?"  he  cried,  horror-stricken. 

"  Yes,  yer  Reverence,"  she  said.  "  Whin  I  wint  in  this 
morning  to  give  her  a  drink,  she  was  dead  and  cold.  She 
must  have  died  in  the  early  part  of  the  night." 

"This  is  a  great  shock!"  he  said,  striving  to  control 
his  emotion.  He  remembered,  alas!  that  he  had  parted 
from  the  faithful  soul  in  anger,  and  unreconciled.  Her 
old  wrinkled  face,  with  the  furrows  filled  with  tears, 
came  up  before  him  to  torment  him. 

"Since  the  day  yer  Reverence  was  over,"  continued 
Nance,  not  knowing  what  a  bitter  thing  she  was  saying, 


A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  79 

''she  hasn't  been  the  same.  Not  a  word  could  I  get  out 
of  her  but  'Yes!'  or  'No!'  and  I  used  hear  her  sobbing 
at  night  in  her  sleep." 

"But  was  she  ailing  particularly?"  he  asked.  "Did 
she  send  for  Father  Listen?" 

"Oh,  yeh,  no!"  said  Nance.  "If  she  thought  she  was 
near  her  ind,  she'd  send  for  nobody  but  yer  Reverence. 
But,  sure,  no  wan  can  tell  whin  the  ould  people  take  it 
in  their  heads  to  go.  But  she  was  the  good  mother  to 
me!" 

And  the  girl  wept  sadly. 

"Very  good!"  at  length  said  the  priest.  "You  can  go 
home  now,  Nance;  and  I'll  be  over  in  the  morning  imme- 
diately after  the  Parish  Mass.  And  we  can  talk  over  the 
arrangements  for  the  funeral." 

"Very  well,  yer  Reverence.  I'll  lave  it  all  in  your 
hands.     'Twill  be  the  lonesome  Christmas  for  me!" 

"And  for  me,"  he  thought,  as  the  door  closed  on  the 

girl- 
He  sat  down  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  The 
keenest  remorse  flooded  his  soul.  His  oldest  friend  in 
the  parish,  his  only  friend,  had  passed  away  unreconciled 
and,  as  she  thought,  unforgiven.  Her  faith,  her  piety, 
her  vision  of  God,  her  freedom  of  speech  which  he  remem- 
bered now  with  a  pang  he  himself  had  invited  and  en- 
joyed, her  very  poverty,  out  of  which  she  gave  so  largely 
and  generously  —  all  came  back,  each  with  its  little  sting 
of  remorse  and  bitterness  for  an  opportunity  lost,  and 
not  to  be  recalled.  Minute  after  minute  seemed  to  flit 
by  over  the  head  of  the  lonely  man  as  he  sat  bowed  by 
sorrow  at  his  hearth-side.  He  did  not  hear  the  repeated 
knocks  at  his  door  —  the  shy,  silent  whispering  in  the 
hall,  as  messenger  after  messenger  came  in  with  her  little 
offering.  He  could  only  think  of  that  old  withered  face 
and  the  tears  that  ran  in  its  channels. 

At  last  the  knocks  had  ceased,  and  tea  was  placed  on 
the  table,  when  the  sound  of  a  car  stopped  at  the  door 
woke  him  to  a  new  sensation.     Although  slightly  indif- 


80  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ferent,  and  thinking  it  might  be  his  curate  coming  for 
instructions  for  the  morrow,  it  was  yet  a  diversion  from 
his  gloomy  thoughts.  He  waited  and  listened.  There 
was  a  sharp,  peremptory  double  knock,  which  his  house- 
keeper answered.  Then  the  sounds  of  something  very 
heavy  being  dragged  into  the  hall,  a  hasty  colloquy  and 
a  loud-pitched  musical  voice,  and,  as  the  dining-room 
door  opened,  a  young  girl  burst  into  the  room. 

She  seemed  not  to  be  more  than  fourteen  or  fifteen 
years  of  age,  but  she  had  all  the  self-possession  of  a  woman. 
And  surely  such  a  fair  apparition  never  threw  its  shadow 
on  that  room  before.  Even  with  his  dimmed  eyes,  the 
priest  looking  down  on  the  pale  face,  just  now  washed  by 
the  wintry  rains,  and  slightly  flushed  from  the  rudeness 
of  the  winds,  discerned  something  strangely  and  weirdly 
beautiful  beneath  the  hood  that  framed  it;  and  large, 
dark  eyes  looked  up  at  him  with  a  half-solemn,  half- 
merry  look,  that  was  to  his  lonely  soul  something  won- 
derful and  almost  alarming. 

"Here  I  am.  Uncle,  at  last,"  she  said,  holding  out  one 
gloved  hand,  "ain't  you  glad  to  see  me?" 

He  murmured  something;  but  looked  so  surprised  at 
the  apparition  that  she  thought  it  necessary  to  explain. 

"You  know  I'm  your  niece,"  she  said.  "My  poor 
mother  was  your  sister,  at  least  so  I've  been  told;  and 
Father  Falvey  said  to  me,  'Now  you  go  right  on;  your 
uncle  is  a  great  man  at  the  other  side,  and  he  will  be 
awfully  pleased  to  see  you,  and  have  you  always  with 
him.'  But,  do  you  know.  Uncle,  I  didn't  think  you  were 
so  old.  Mother  always  said  that  you  were  so  much 
younger  and  she  used  talk  about  you  so,  and  say  how 
clever  you  were.  My  —  what  a  lot  of  books!  Sure, 
you  don't  read  all  these?" 

"  Well,  you'll  help  me,"  he  said.  "  But,  child,"  he  con- 
tinued in  a  tone  of  real  alarm,  placing  his  hand  on  her 
head  and  shoulder,  "you  are  drenched.  Go  at  once  to 
the  kitchen  and  change  everything  and  tell  Anne  to  get 
you  a  cup  of  tea.     Or,  stay ! " 


A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  81 

He  rang  the  bell.  The  old  housekeeper  appeared,  half 
bewildered,  half  frightened.  She  thought  she  was  going 
to  get  orders  to  expel  the  intruder  at  once. 

"Take  Miss  O'Farrell  to  the  kitchen  fire,  Anne,  and 
get  her  some  dry  things  to  put  on;  and  get  her  a  hot  drink 
at  once." 

"But  I  may  come  in,  Uncle,  then,  may  I  not?" 

"Certainly.  I'll  wait  tea  here  for  you.  Only  don't 
delay  or  you'll  catch  cold." 

"Oh,  I  was  near  forgetting,"  she  said,  turning  away, 
"would  you  mind,  Uncle  dear,  settling  with  that  driver? 
You  know  I  think  he  was  charging  me  a  little  more  than 
was  right." 

She  had  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and  stretched 
forth  her  meagre  purse.  The  little  gesture  touched  him, 
and  he  put  her  hand  aside. 

"Now,  leave  all  that  to  me!  You  go  at  once  and 
change  your  clothes  as  I  told  you." 

He  came  back  to  his  fire,  after  settling  her  fare  with 
the  driver  who  grumbled  badly  and  quoted  the  wet  night, 
and  the  storm,  and  the  eight-mile  drive,  and  Christmas 
time,  and  many  other  things;  but  finally  compromised 
for  a  glass  of  whiskey  which  the  priest  compassionately 
gave  him.  But,  when  the  latter  had  reached  his  fireside, 
and  the  car  had  driven  away,  and  all  noises  had  subsided, 
and  the  wheels  of  thought  began  to  revolve  again,  he 
almost  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  situation,  and  the 
strange  pranks  Destiny  seemed  to  be  playing  with  him. 
He  was  just  in  the  condition  of  a  drowning  man  who 
flings  up  his  arms  and  goes  down  despairing  into  the 
depths,  or  of  one  who,  clinging  to  some  frail  support 
above  a  precipice,  at  last  decides  that  he  must  give  way 
and  succumb  to  Fate. 

"It  is  quite  clear  now,"  he  murmured,  leaning  his 
head  on  his  hands,  "that  my  peace  of  mind,  if  ever  I 
possessed  it,  is  at  an  end  for  ever." 

And  yet,  he  thought,  how  would  it  be  in  his  old  age, 
with  eyesight  ever  growing  dimmer  and  dimmer,  and 
7 


82  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

with  a  heart-breaking  farewell  to  his  books  on  his  lips, 
—  if  this  sudden  vision  were  to  create  a  new  dawn  in 
his  life,  and  supply  by  gentle  human  intercourse  the  awful 
dearth  and  hunger  in  his  life  which  his  beloved  studies 
had  hitherto  filled? 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  muttered,  as  his  niece  re-entered  the 
room,  "these  things  are  disposed  by  the  Higher  Powers." 

She  looked  more  attractive  even  than  when  she  had 
entered  in  her  nun-like  hood.  The  sodden  wet  aspect 
had  disappeared;  and  she  looked  now  so  spruce,  so  neat, 
so  perfect  a  little  picture  that  the  grim  man  decided. 
Yes,  it  was  surely  a  new  dawn  that  had  broken  on  the 
dusk  of  his  life!  She  had  put  on  a  soft  gray  gown,  which 
fitted  her  form  to  perfection,  her  long,  dark  hair  was 
filleted  in  front  and  caught  behind  with  a  gleaming 
comb,  which  allowed  the  loose  tresses  to  hang  down 
almost  to  her  waist.  Her  large,  open  sleeves,  frilled 
with  lace,  left  her  arms  bare  to  the  elbow.  He  did  not 
approve  of  this;  but  he  said  in  his  own  mind.  It  is  an 
Americanism,  I  suppose,  and  her  mother  must  have 
known  it. 

She  came  over  quite  familiarly  and  leant  down  over 
the  fire,  and  in  answer  to  his  query,  whether  she  had 
had  a  hot  drink,  she  answered  gaily: 

"  Yes,  dear  uncle,  I  had.  That's  a  dear  old  soul  — 
your  help.  But,  look  here,  she's  Anne,  and  I'm  Anne 
also.  How  are  you  going  to  distinguish  us?  It  would 
never  do,  you,  know,  for  us  to  be  coming  when  we  are 
not  called." 

"I'll  call  you  Annie,"  he  said.  "Will  that  please 
you?  It  is  a  kind  of  diminutive,  you  know.  Or,  would 
you  prefer  Nan,  or  Annette?" 

"Nan,  Nan,  Nan,"  she  repeated,  holding  her  hands  in 
a.  meditative  way  before  the  fire.  "Annette,  Annette! 
No,  we'll  keep  to  Annie,  I  think." 

"What  —  what,"  stammered  the  old  priest,  "did  your 
mother  call  you?" 

"Well,  you  see,  I  was  away  a  good  deal  from  mother 


A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  S3 

at  school;  and  then,  when  I  did  come  home,  she  called 
me  Anna.  I  didn't  like  it.  It  seemed  a  little  tony,  or 
affected.  In  school,  I  had  a  pet  name.  Girls  have  a 
fashion  of  giving  pet  names  in  school  to  each  other." 

"And  what  was  your  pet  name?"  he  said. 

"Gyp,  or  Gypsy,"  she  replied,  "because  I  was  dark, 
and,  I  suppose,  a  little  unruly.  You  know,  I  have  a 
temper  of  my  own.     I  don't  like  being  crossed  sometimes." 

"Oh,  indeed!"  he  said,  lapsing  into  his  usual  vein  of 
sarcasm,  "  I'm  glad  you  have  mentioned  it.  We  shall 
be  on  our  guard." 

"Ah,  there  now,  that's  sarcasm.  Well,  well,  just 
think  of  a  dear  old  priest,  like  you,  being  sarcastic.  One 
of  our  priests  at  the  Sacred  Heart  Church  was  very  fond 
of  talking  in  that  way.  You  never  knew  when  he  was 
serious.  In  fact,  he  used  boast  that  he  never  spoke 
seriously  to  the  Sisters  or  the  children.  Well,  you  know, 
we  used  to  laugh  —  people  always  laugh  at  such  witty 
things,  especially  when  they  are  said  about  others;  but 
somehow,  we  didn't  like  him.  You  know,"  she  said, 
shuffling  uneasily,  and  spreading  out  her  little  hands 
deprecatingly,  "we  expect  priests  to  be  serious,  and 
gentle,  and  —  and  —  awful." 

"Very  good,"  he  cried,  rising  and  going  to  the  tea- 
table,  "  after  that  little  lecture  to  your  venerable  uncle, 
suppose  we  have  some  tea." 

She  drew  over  her  chair,  and  said  saucily,  as  she 
removed  the  cosey: 

"I  think,  uncle,  'tis  my  place  to  pour  out  the  tea,  is 
it  not?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  he  said,  resigning  himself  to  the  new 
order  of  things.  "  I  take  it  that  you  are  going  to  take 
possession  of  all  my  goods  and  chattels." 

"There  now  again,"  she  cried,  raising  the  teapot 
daintily,  "where  did  you  learn  to  be  sarcastic,  uncle, 
living  all  alone  here  by  yourself?  Why,  that  only 
belongs  to  society  people." 

"Oh,  well,"  he  replied,  "we  don't  give  society  people 


84  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

a  monopoly  of  such  things.  When  you  begin  to  think, 
and  you  must  think  a  good  deal  when  you  are  alone,  you 
naturally  come  to  take  a  rather  cynical  view  of  things." 

"Well,  now,"  she  said,  "that  is  right  curious.  But 
uncle?" 

"Well?"  he  said. 

"Do  you  know  I  have  had  no  dinner  to-day.  May  I 
not  order  an  egg?" 

"'Tis  a  fast-day,  Annie,"  he  said.  "And  the  laws  of 
the  Church  have  never  been  violated  in  this  house." 

The  girl  looked  disappointed.     He  saw  it,  and  relented. 

'Ha,  you  said,  I  believe,  that  you  had  no  dinner?" 

"  No,  absolutely  nothing  since  I  left  the  boat  at  Queens- 
town  at  noon.  And  say,  uncle,  I'm  not  bound  to  fast, 
you  know,  I  am  scarcely  fifteen  as  yet." 

"  No,"  he  said,  rising  and  touching  the  bell,  "  but  you 
are  bound  to  abstam.  Every  child  over  seven  years  is 
bound  to  abstain." 

"My!  but  that  is  hard,"  said  his  niece,  nibbling  at  a 
piece  of  toast.  "  Over  with  us,  we  got  a  dispensation  easily 
in  this  matter.     Don't  you  give  dispensations  here?" 

"No!"  he  said,  she  thought  rather  sharply.  "Law  is 
Law.  It  is  made  to  be  obeyed,  not  to  be  dispensed  with. 
Anne,"  he  said,  turning  to  his  aged  housekeeper,  "Miss 
O'Farrell  has  had  no  dinner  to-day.  This  must  be  her 
dinner.     Can  you  get  some  eggs  and  sardines?" 

"  I  can,  sir,"  said  the  old  housekeeper  readily.  "  But 
may  not  the  child  have  a  chop  after  so  long  a  fast?" 

"No!"  he  said,  so  sharply  that  Annie  was  startled. 
It  was  a  new  revelation. 

He  seemed  to  be  moody  for  some  time.  The  eggs  and 
sardines  on  toast  presently  appeared,  and  the  girl  raised 
the  cover. 

"They  are  nice,"  she  said,  with  the  enthusiasm  of 
hunger.     "Uncle,  may  I  not  help  you  to  some?" 

"Have  I  not  told  you,"  he  said,  almost  rudely,  "that 
this  is  a  fast-day?  How  then  can  you  ask  me  to  violate 
one  of  the  laws  of  the  Church?  " 


A  CHRISTMAS  GIFT  85 

She  sank  abashed  before  his  eyes,  and  ate  her  meal  in 
silence.  He  had  pulled  over  his  chair  to  the  fire,  leaving 
his  niece  alone  at  the  table.  He  had  simply  swallowed 
one  cup  of  tea,  touching  no  food. 

During  the  progress  of  the  meal  he  touched  the  bell 
again,  and  when  the  old  housekeeper  appeared  he  asked 
whether  Miss  O'Farrell's  room  had  been  got  ready.  The 
old  woman  answered,  yes. 

"  Then,  be  sure  to  have  a  good  peat  and  wood  fire  there," 
he  said.     "Miss  O'Farrell  is  used  to  a  heated  room." 

This  softened  matters  again  a  little,  and  the  girl  crept 
near  him. 

"  Uncle, "  she  said  timidly. 

"Well?"  he  replied,  but  there  was  an  accent  of  kind- 
ness in  his  voice. 

"Uncle,  will  you  call  me  'Annie'  always  and  not  'Miss 
O'Farreir?" 

"Very  well,"  he  replied. 

"Uncle?"  she  said  again. 

"Well,  what  now?"  he  said. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said,  laying  her  small  hand  on 
his  shoulder,  "  I  am  afraid  that  —  that  —  you  didn't 
expect  me  —  that  I  am  unwelcome." 

"No,  no,  Annie,"  he  replied,  taking  the  girl's  hand 
from  his  shoulder,  and  folding  it  in  his  big  palm.  "  You 
mustn't  think  that.  You  must  learn  to  bear  with  the 
temper  of  an  old  man.  You  are  thrice  welcome  for  your 
own  sake,  and  —  and  for  your  mother's.  There;  we'll 
say  no  more  to-night.  Be  ready  to  come  with  me  in 
the  morning  to  eight-o'clock  Mass.  Anno  will  call  you. 
Good-night!" 

"Good-night!"  she  said.     "And,  uncle?" 

"Well  now?"  he  asked. 

"A  Happy  Christmas,  uncle!" 

"Yes,  yes,  a  Happy  Christmas!"  he  said.  Then,  as 
if  he  were  again  too  hasty,  he  added : 

"A  Happy  Christmas,  Annie!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  Question  in  Theology 

To  sensitive,  nervous  dispositions,  which  are  always 
regretting  the  past,  or  filled  with  forebodings  for  the 
future,  the  first  moments  of  waking  in  the  morning  are 
very  trying.  Consciousness  suddenly  aroused  seems  to 
rivet  and  fasten  itself  on  the  most  unpleasant  things; 
and  it  is  only  when  the  blood  begins  to  circulate  freely 
through  the  brain,  that  these  unhallowed  thoughts  are 
expelled,  and  the  more  healthy  ideas  of  normal  waking 
hours  promptly  take  their  place. 

In  the  gray  dawn  of  the  winter  morning  the  good  pastor 
of  whom  we  are  writing  suddenly  realized  two  or  three 
portentous  events,  which  in  the  excitement  of  the  pre- 
vious night,  and  the  happy  oblivion  of  sleep,  he  had 
momentarily  forgotten.  All  the  remorse  he  had  felt  the 
previous  day  on  the  announcement  of  the  death  of  old 
Betty  Lane,  came  back  and  he  felt  abashed,  humbled, 
ashamed.  All  the  dread  of  his  first  interview  with  his 
niece  came  back;  and  he  was  terrified.  Evils  seemed  to 
be  accumulating  on  him  from  all  sides;  and  the  more  he 
sought  to  shelter  himself  against  them,  the  more  surely 
and  swiftly  did  they  seek  him  out. 

It  was  a  silent  and  moody  man  that  drove  his  niece 
across  the  level  road  that  led  to  his  church;  and  to  her 
young  eyes,  cleared  from  the  night-shadows,  he  seemed 
quite  a  different  being  from  the  stately  and  stern,  but 
kindly  being  she  had  met  the  night  before.  He  led  her 
around  by  a  private  door  that  marked  the  entrance  to 
the  pews:  and  probably  it  was  this  little  preoccupation 
and  his  dim  sight  that  prevented  him  from  observing 

86 


A  QUESTION  IN  THEOLOGY  87 

that  not  far  away  from  the  place  where  his  own  collec- 
tors were  sitting  with  sheets  of  paper  before  them,  there 
was  a  small  group  of  two  or  three  men,  the  centre  of 
which  was  Dick  Duggan.  Their  object  in  placing  them- 
selves there  was  manifest.  They  said  nothing,  did  noth- 
ing, but  watched.  And  the  result  was  soon  seen.  Men 
came  into  the  chapel-yard,  made  their  way  toward 
the  collectors  to  pay  their  little  offerings  and  have  their 
names  taken  down,  saw  this  group  watching  silently, 
paused,  hesitated,  and  passed  by  without  entering  their 
names.  Little  knots  of  people  came  in,  eagerly  talking, 
suddenly  grew  silent,  whispered  in  a  frightened  tone, 
drew  back,  and  passed  into  the  church,  like  the  others. 
The  collectors  looked  serious:  the  little  group  of  watch- 
ers smiled;  Duggan  laughed  outright. 

It  was  rather  fortunate  the  parish  priest  had  not  ob- 
served them.  With  his  lofty  pride,  he  disdained  going 
near  the  collectors  to  ask  or  see  if  the  parishioners  were 
paying  their  usual  offerings.  This  happy  accident  left 
him  in  ignorance  of  the  proceedings  of  the  men  who  were 
exercising  a  silent  terrorism  over  the  people.  If  he  had 
seen  them,  he  would  have  peremptorily  ordered  them 
from  the  place;  and  if  they  resisted,  he  would  have  re- 
moved them  with  violence.  But,  although  he  suspected 
that  there  would  be  some  conspiracy  on  foot  to  compel 
the  people  to  withhold  their  Christmas  offerings,  he  never 
dreamed  that  they  would  venture  on  such  a  bold  and 
insolent  plan  to  thwart  and  annoy  him.  It  was  only 
after  he  had  said  his  second  Mass,  and  was  hurrying  over 
towards  where  the  remains  of  old  Betty  Lane  were  lying, 
that  he  was  accosted  by  the  collectors,  who  showed  him 
a  vacant  list  and  an  empty  purse.  He  thanked  them, 
and  said  nothing,  but  passed  on. 

He  left  his  niece  at  his  house,  and  bade  her  have  break- 
fast without  waiting  for  him,  and  drove  on  to  where 
the  remains  of  the  old  woman  awaited  their  final  sepul- 
ture. There  in  the  presence  of  the  saintly  dead,  he  saw 
as  in  a  flash  of  inspiration,  how  poor  and  petty  were  all 


88  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

earthly  things,  when  viewed  in  the  light  of  that  eternity 
to  which  Death  was  the  happy  portal;  and  not  for  the 
first,  nor  the  hundredth,  time  in  his  life,  did  he  wish  that 
his  weary  pilgrimage,  too,  were  at  an  end,  and  that  he 
could  get  away  from  these  hateful  and  perplexing  sur- 
roundings into  the  unbroken  serenity  of  eternity.  He 
breakfasted  there  in  that  little  parlour  with  that  poor, 
humble  washerwoman;  and  watching  her  patient  face, 
seamed  with  toil  and  the  harsh  buffetings  of  life,  he  grew 
calmer,  and  more  confident  of  God. 

"  I  shall  miss  poor  Betty,"  he  said.  "  She  was  almost 
my  only  friend  in  the  parish." 

"Oh,  don't  say  that,  yer  reverence,"  said  the  poor  girl, 
"you  have  plinty  of  frinds;  only  they're  shy  of  you." 

"The  collection  this  morning  doesn't  show  it,"  he  said, 
almost  humbly.  "  Look  here,  Nance,  not  a  name  on  the 
list." 

"Glory  be  to  God!"  said  the  frightened  girl,  "that 
never  happened  before.  There  must  be  some  divilment 
behind  it." 

"I  don't  mind  the  loss,"  he  said.  "That's  nothing. 
It  is  the  shame  and  insult  of  the  thing  I  mind.  Every 
man  that  passed  by  this  morning  slapped  me  on  the  face." 

"  It's  only  wan  or  two,  yer  reverence,"  she  said,  reas- 
suringly. "Only  wan  or  two;  but  they  are  a  bad  lot, 
and  the  people  are  afraid  of  them." 

"That's  just  it,"  he  said.  "That's  just  what  I  com- 
plain of  —  that  the  whole  parish  should  be  terrorized 
by  one  or  two  miscreants.  What  are  they  afraid  of? 
What  can  these  fellows  do?" 

"That's  thrue,  yer  reverence,"  she  said.  "But  you 
see  the  people  nowadays  don't  like  throuble;  an'  anny 
wan  of  them  blagards  could  set  fire  to  a  rick  of  hay  or 
straw,  or  bum  down  the  cow-house,  or  lame  a  horse  for 
life  — and  they'd  do  it!" 

"Veiy  good,"  said  the  priest.  "But  then  the  people 
would  get  compensation  from  the  court.  They  wouldn't 
suffer  a  penny  loss." 


I 


A  QUESTION  IN  THEOLOGY  89 

''Yes,  yer  reverence.  But  look  at  all  the  throuble. 
Look  at  the  lawyers,  witnesses;  and  maybe  afther  they'd 
gone  to  all  kinds  of  expinse,  it  would  be  thrun  out  in  the 
ind  by  the  ould  barrister." 

"I  see,"  he  said,  reflectively.  ''You're  right,  Nance! 
The  days  of  heroism,  and  even  decent  principle,  are  past. 
The  people  are  become  a  parcel  of  sheep,  ready  to  fly  and 
destroy  themselves  at  the  bark  of  a  dog." 

"At  any  rate,  yer  reverence,"  she  said,  "there's  wan 
consolation.  They're  more  afraid  of  Dick  Duggan  than 
they  are  of  yer  reverence." 

"I'm  afraid  'tis  true,"  he  said  laughing.  "They  can't 
say  any  more  that  I  am  keeping  them  in  a  state  of  terror." 

"But,  you  may  be  sure  of  wan  thing,  yer  reverence," 
the  poor  girl  said,  anxious  to  relieve  the  weary  load  that 
was  pressing  on  her  pastor,  "  there  isn't  wan  parishioner, 
except  maybe  thim  Duggans,  that  won't  pay  you  yer 
jues.  An'  if  the  poor  old  'uman  had  her  way,  you'd 
get  it  on  the  double." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,"  he  said  somewhat  more  cheerily. 
"But  not  one  penny  of  their  money  shall  soil  my  hands. 
I  wouldn't  touch  the  coins  of  cowards." 

It  was  true.  That  very  day,  at  the  funeral  of  old 
Betty  Lane,  whilst  the  men  were  waiting  to  take  out  the 
coffin  for  burial  some  farmers  came  up  sheepishly  to  the 
parish  priest,  and  proffered  their  offerings. 

"We  weren't  able  to  give  it  this  morning,"  they  said. 

"Why?"  he  asked  shortly,  whilst  his  thin  lips  drew 
together,  and  curled  in  angry  scorn. 

There  was  no  answer. 

"Take  your  money,"  he  said.  "I'd  feel  myself  ever- 
lastingly shamed,  if  I  touched  the  money  of  men  who  were 
afraid  to  do  right." 

And  they  slunk  away. 

Again,  after  the  funeral  was  over,  little  groups  met 
him;  and  humbly  and  apologetically  offered  their  little 
mites.  He  dismissed  every  one  of  them  with  contempt; 
and  they  began  to  think  that  after  all,  they  would  have 


90  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

done  better  had  they  braved  the  anger  of  Dick  Duggan 
and  his  clique. 

He  got  home  in  the  early  afternoon,  and  ashamed  of 
the  gloom  of  the  morning,  which  he  saw  had  fallen  heavy 
on  his  niece,  he  determined  at  any  cost  to  put  a  brave 
face  on  matters  and  help  Annie  and  his  only  other  guest, 
his  curate,  to  have  a  pleasant  evening. 

When  he  entered  the  hall,  and  put  up  his  driving  cloak 
and  hat,  Annie  came  out  to  meet  him.  It  was  quite 
clear  that  the  morning's  depression  had  left  but  little 
trace  on  her  blithe  and  happy  spirit,  for  she  had  her  arms 
bare  to  the  elbows  and  whitened  with  flour,  whilst  thick 
lumps  of  dough  clung  to  her  fingers. 

"  You  never  wished  me  a  '  Merry  Christmas '  this  morn- 
ing," she  said.  "And  now  I  can't  shake  hands  with  you. 
I  am  making  up  some  jam-rolls  for  Anne.  She  says  she 
never  saw  them  made." 

"Then  you'll  have  to  eat  them  yourself,"  he  said. 
"Neither  I  nor  my  curate  is  going  to  put  ourselves  in 
for  a  bad  fit  of  dyspepsia." 

"But,  uncle!  Dyspepsia? "  she  cried  in  protest.  "No! 
No !  I'll  make  them  so  light  you  won't  know  when  you've 
swallowed  them.     I  will,  indeed." 

"All  right,"  he  said.  " But  we  don't  want  any  of  your 
American  cookery  here.  Keep  your  old  pies  and  doughnuts 
to  yourselves.  All  we  want  is  honest  Irish  meat  and  drink." 

"Well,  I'll  bet  you,  —  I'll  bet  you,  something,"  she 
cried,  "that  I'll  make  your  curate  eat  them.  Who  is 
he?     And  what  is  he  like?  " 

"Ah,  well,  now,  just  wait  and  see.  It  is  always  a 
mistake  to  describe  people.  There  is  generally  disap- 
pointment. But  get  away  now  and  go  to  work.  I  have 
to  read  my  office  before  dinner,  and  read  up  something. 
I  suppose  there  can  be  no  reading  to-night." 

"  I  guess  not,"  she  said,  "  if  I  can  help  it.  Imagine  — 
reading  on  Christmas  Night!" 

Father  Henry  Liston  came  over  early.     His  face  was 


A  QUESTION   IN   THEOLOGY  91 

clouded.  He  had  heard  of  the  news  at  Doonvarragh, 
although  at  Lackagh  and  Athboy,  where  he  had  cele- 
brated, the  collections  came  in  as  usual. 

"You  see,  Pastor,"  he  said,  with  some  freedom,  be- 
cause he  felt  he  was  now  on  the  pastor's  side,  and  there 
Was  almost  a  sense  of  patronage  in  his  accent,  "  if  you  had 
just  allowed  me  pitch  into  those  scoundrels,  this  would 
never  have  happened.  These  fellows  begin  to  think  we 
are  afraid  of  them;  and,  by  Jove,  mark  my  words.  Pastor, 
if  ever  our  people  think  that  we  fear  them,  they  will 
trample  upon  us.     That's  my  experience." 

Dr.  William  Gray  looked  clown  on  the  youthful  form, 
and  boyish  face  of  his  curate,  and  smiled. 

"Now,  if  I  had  been  over  here  this  morning,"  con- 
tinued Henry,  not  noticing  his  pastor's  amusement,  "  I'd 
have  taken  that  Duggan  by  the  nape  of  the  neck,  and 
pitched  him  into  the  channel.  And,  then,  I'd  have  taken 
each  of  the  other  fellows  in  turn,  and  chucked  them  cut." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  taken  the  three  in  a  bunch?"  said 
the  pastor.     "That  would  have  spared  time  and  labour." 

"No,"  said  his  curate,  unheeding  the  sarcasm  in  his 
anger,  "I  would  have  taken  them  separately  and  indi- 
vidually. It  would  have  been  more  effective;  and  then, 
I'd  have  withered  up  that  congregation  in  such  a  way 
that  not  one  of  them  would  have  been  left  an  appetite 
for  roast  goose  that  day." 

"That  would  never  do,"  said  his  pastor.  "That  would 
drive  the  whole  parish  to  drink;  and  the  remedy  would 
be  worse  than  the  disease." 

"Well,  all  I  know  is,"  said  the  curate,  "you  have 
taken  the  whole  thing  too  quietly.  You  have  the  name 
of  being  a  strong  man ;  and  I  suppose  you  were  when  you 
were  young.  But  age,  age  tells  its  own  tale.  It  is  only 
young  men  should  be  made  Parish  Priests  and  Bishops. 
They  have  no  experience  and  no  fear." 

"Out  of  the  lips  of  babes  and  sucklings  cometh  "^orth 
wisdom,"  said  his  pastor.  "  But  we'll  waive  the  subject 
now,  young  man.     I  want  to  ask  you  a  question  in  theol- 


92  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ogy  before  we  dine.     I  believe  we  can't  discuss  the  matter 
after." 

The  curate's  face  fell  at  the  word  "Theology."  It 
was  the  prelude,  he  knew,  to  many  an  ordeal.  But  he 
plucked  up  courage  to  say: 

"Why  not?" 

"No  matter.  You'll  see  for  yourself  after,"  replied 
his  pastor.  "But  the  question  is,  If  a  parcel  were  sent 
to  you  from  abroad,  a  parcel  which  you  strenuously 
objected  to,  which  you  didn't  want,  and  distinctly  re- 
fused, were  yet  sent  on,  what  would  you  do?" 

Henry  reflected  a  moment,  and  recalled  all  his  prin- 
ciples of  justice  and  contracts,  which  he  had  learned  with 
infinite  pains  in  college.  Then  he  held  up  his  head  and 
did  a  Wiise  thing.     He  asked  another  question: 

"Was  the  carriage  prepaid?" 

"Well,  yes,"  said  the  pastor.  "They  were  obliging 
and  polite  enough  to  do  that." 

"  Because,  you  know,"  said  his  curate,  confidently, 
"  I  always  suspect  unstamped  letters,  or  parcels  on  which 
you  are  requested  to  pay  something.  Well,  then,  I 
should  say  it  all  depends  on  the  value  of  the  parcel." 

"  But,  you  don't  know  the  value  and  cannot  measure 
it.     It  may  be  worth  a  good  deal,  or  —  " 

Here  the  pastor  paused.     He  could  not  say  that  word. 

"By  Jove,  that's  a  hard  case,"  said  Henry,  driving 
his  hands  deep  in  his  pockets  and  looking  crossly  at  his 
boots.  "I  never  heard  of  such  a  case  in  theology.  It 
only  shows  that  in  practical  life,  questions  will  crop  up, 
of  which  the  astutest  theologians  never  dreamed.  You 
must  give  me  time,  Pastor;  that's  not  a  question  to  be 
decided  offhand." 

"Certainly,"  said  his  pastor.     "In  fact  here    comes 
dinner.     You  sit  here." 

"  You  expect  somebody  else,"  said  his  curate,  nodding 
to  the  knife  and  fork  and  napkin  at  the  other  side. 

"  Yes !  This  is  my  niece,  Miss  O'Farrell,  P ather  Liston," 
said  the  pastor,  as  Annie  entered  the  room.     And  prob- 


A  QUESTION  IN  THEOLOGY  93 

ably,  the  best  fun  of  the  Christmas  night  was  to  see  the 
astonishment  and  surprise  written  on  the  face  of  that 
good  curate,  as  Annie  sailed  in,  and  quietly  saluted  him. 

She  had  put  on  a  white  dress,  frilled  and  tucked  and 
plaited  in  some  marvellous  manner.  Little  fringes,  of 
lace  fluttered  around  her  neck  and  over  her  hands;  and 
a  little  miniature  of  her  mother's  clasped  at  h-er  throat 
seemed  to  be  the  only  bit  of  colour  that  relieved  the  white 
monotone  of  dress  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  dark 
masses  of  hair  that  rippled  down  from  the  gold  fillet 
across  her  neck.  She  looked  to  the  eyes  of  the  young 
priest  the  living  embodiment  of  all  those  pure,  sweet, 
holy  figures  that  had  been  painted  on  his  brain,  since 
he  took  up  his  first  prayer-book,  or  raised  his  eyes,  at 
the  bidding  of  his  mother,  to  the  celestial  vision  of  the 
Woman  and  Child.  He  stared  and  stared  and  stared, 
as  if  he  were  mesmerized  with  surprise,  until  he  was 
brought  back  to  his  senses  by  the  young  lady  herself 
saying: 

"Look  here,  Father  Liston,  you're  spilling  your  soup 
on  the  table  cloth;  and  Anne  will  be  furious." 

Then  he  blushed  for  his  bad  manners,  and  got  back 
to  his  senses. 

But  it  was  a  happy  dinner;  and  when  the  plum-pudding 
and  jam-rolls  and  mince-pies  came  round,  Henry  did 
them  all  full  justice. 

"You'll  take  some  more  plum-pudding?"  said  the 
pastor. 

"For  the  sake  of  the  sauce,"  said  Henry,  handing  up 
his  plate. 

"No,  no.  Uncle,"  said  Annie,  "Father  Liston  must 
take  some  of  these  jam-rolls.     It  was  I  made  them." 

There  was  no  resisting  that  appeal;  and  Henry  took 
three  jam-rolls  on  his  plate. 

"They  are  as  light  as  feathers!"  said  Annie. 

"They  are  absolutely  murderous  1"  said  her  uncle. 

"I  appeal  to  Father  Liston,"  said  Annie. 

"Yes!  they're  very  bad,"  said  Henry.     "Don't  give 


94  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

« 
^ny  to  your  uncle,  Miss  O'Farrell.     They'd  shorten  his 
life.     Keep  them  all  for  me." 

"There,  I  guessed  so  much,"  said  the  pastor. 

"You  might  as  well  eat  bullets,"  said  Henry,  handing 
over  his  plate  for  more.  "They're  certainly  as  indi- 
gestible as  cheese  upon  corned  beef." 

"  You'll  be  deadly  sick  to-morrow,"  said  the  pastor, 
''and  I'll  not  attend  your  calls." 

"All  right,"  said  Henry.  "I  wouldn't  advise  you 
touch  one,  Pastor.     You'd  be  a  dead  man  in  a  week." 

And  then  the  dish  was  cleared.  Annie  held  it  up 
triumphantly  over  her  head.  "There's  American  cook- 
ery," she  cried.     "Hurrah  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes!" 

Then  she  said  merrily  that  the  sauce  of  the  pudding 
had  got  into  her  head  and  that,  if  she  stayed  longer,  she 
would  talk  too  much,  and  would  uncle  mind,  if  she  went 
in  to  Anne;  and  she  would  appear  again  at  tea-time. 
Which  was  all  a  pretty  way  of  contriving  to  leave  the 
two  priests  alone,  for  they  had  many  deep  things  to 
discuss  which  a  young  maiden's  comprehension  could 
hardly  reach. 

When  he  had  closed  the  door,  Henry  said,  standing 
near  the  fire: 

"Is  that  the  parcel  you  spoke  of.  Pastor,  that  came 
prepaid  from  a  foreign  land?" 

"  It  is,"  said  the  pastor,  as  just  a  little  shade  of  anxiety 
crept  down  on  his  face. 

"Then  I  think  my  decision  is,  to  keep  that  parcel," 
said  Henry. 


CHAPTER  X 

DuNKERRiN  Castle 

Under  the  same  heavy  pall  of  darkness,  under  the 
same  smoky  mist,  that  seemed  now  to  descend  from  the 
heavens  and  again  to  exhale  from  the  earth,  the  same 
Christmas  was  spent,  but  not  under  the  same  conditions, 
at  Dunkerrin  Castle.  The  half-gypsy,  half-tinker  tribe, 
were  all  gathered  together  in  a  large  room  of  the  old 
castle,  —  the  grandmother  of  sixty  bending  now  over  the 
fire,  now  over  the  cradle,  where  the  youngest  child  was 
sleeping;  the  father  seated  on  a  wooden  chair  smoking; 
the  children  romping  or  fighting  for  the  bones  of  the  fowl 
that  had  served  as  a  Christmas  dinner.  There  was  an 
aspect  of  debility  about  the  old  woman,  as  she  bent  her- 
self almost  double  over  the  fire,  contrasting  strongly 
with  the  erect  and  almost  defiant  attitude  she  assumed 
when  she  went  amongst  the  people  and  carried  the  terrors 
of  her  supposed  supernatural  powers  amongst  them. 
She  was  an  actress  off  the  stage,  and  she  seemed  limp 
and  broken  under  the  weight  of  her  years.  Her  son  was 
a  long,  lithe,  active  fellow,  who,  even  in  repose,  seemed 
to  keep  every  sense  and  sinew  on  the  alert  against  sur- 
prise; and  even  now,  as  he  smoked  calmly,  his  eyes 
seemed,  whilst  watching  the  flames  that  shot  up  the 
chimney,  to  be  afar  in  their  vision,  seeing  what  might 
be  even  more  truly  than  what  is. 

The  dusky  brood  of  children  varied  in  appearance  as 
much  as  in  age.  The  eldest  girl  was  positively  ugly; 
yet  her  brother,  next  in  age,  was  as  beautiful  as  those 
pictures  that  represent  Ribera,  the  Spanish  artist.  Then 
again,  the  girl  next  in  age  was  as  perfect  in  face  and 

95 


96  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

figure  as  any  gypsy  traditions  could  show;  and  so  on, 
down  through  the  entire  line  of  brown  young  savages 
to  the  baby  who  cried  in  her  cradle. 

Except  the  noisy  tumult  of  the  children,  quelled  from 
time  to  time  by  words  or  blows  from  their  granddame, 
there  was  no  sound  audible.  But  a  trained  ear  would 
catch,  at  regular  pauses,  a  long,  low  gurgling  sound,  the 
swish  of  the  waves  that  this  night  broke  softly  outside 
and  then  rushed  tumultuously  through  the  tunnel  right 
under  the  room  where  the  gypsies  were  keeping  their 
Christmas.  Sometimes,  in  the  high  swell  and  purpose 
of  the  tide,  the  waters  thundered  and  seemed  to  shake 
to  its  foundation  the  stout  old  castle,  and  then  to  break 
away  in  hissing  volumes  of  water  that  seemed  to  sweep 
the  foundations  with  them. 

The  room  where  the  family  were  gathered  was  very 
large,  square,  and  lofty.  The  floor  was  of  stone;  and 
the  roof  ascended  dome-like,  or  like  a  beehive,  layer 
upon  layer  of  apparently  small  stones  leashed  on  one 
another  till  they  closed  narrowly  in  the  summit.  The 
narrow  slits  that  opened  in  and  served  as  windows  were 
carefully  blocked  up  with  old  clothes  driven  deep  into 
the  wedges  of  the  walls,  so  that  not  a  ray  of  hght  could 
be  seen  from  the  outside,  nor  could  a  listener  or  watcher 
learn  aught  of  what  transpired  within.  High  up  on  one 
of  the  walls  was  the  Gothic  door,  strongly  iron-hinged 
and  studded  with  nails,  through  which  Dr.  Wycherly 
had  made  his  way  and  found  his  wife's  supposed  tresses. 
But  it  looked  so  massive  and  so  antiquated  that  a  careless 
person  would  deem  it  but  a  piece  of  mock  masonry  or 
woodwork  without  any  further  use  or  design.  Over  in 
one  angle  of  the  building  was  a  litter  of  straw  held  in 
place  with  a  framework  of  heavy  stones.  Two  or  three 
ragged  coverlets  were  cast  loosely  upon  it.  A  pony's 
harness  and  a  few  boxes  made  up  the  rest  of  the  furni- 
ture. The  larder  was  a  niche  near  the  fireplace;  and  it 
was  the  one  opulent  thing  that  relieved  the  misery  of 
the  place,  for  it  was  crammed  with  turkeys,  geese,  and 


DUNKERRIN  CASTLE  97 

chickens,  which  had  been  reported  missing  from  many  a 
desolate  fowl-yard  during  the  past  eventful  fortnight. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  and  the  children's  cries  died 
away,  as  they  clambered  undressed  into  their  straw 
couch,  the  eldest  girl  and  boy  alone  remaining  up  with 
their  parents,  the  old  woman  said,  in  a  half-querulous 
manner : 

"Get  out  the  brandy,  little  Pete.  Why  not  we  spend 
Christmas,  as  well  as  the  Gorgios?" 

He  rose  up  lazily,  and  yet  nothing  loth;  and  was  about 
to  mount  a  ladder  toward  the  door  that  was  sunk  into 
the  masonry,  when  he  paused,  listened,  and  thought  he 
heard  a  footstep  outside.  Just  then,  a  mighty  sweep  of 
waters,  borne  in  on  the  swell  of  the  tide,  hushed  every 
sound  for  a  moment;  and  when  there  was  silence,  a  tap 
was  distinctly  heard  at  the  door.  The  man  hastily  re- 
moved the  ladder,  whilst  the  old  woman  lowered  the  lamp, 
and  the  two  eldest  children  looked  from  father  to  grand- 
dame,  as  if  asking  what  they  were  to  do  in  the  sudden 
emergency.  Then  the  old  woman,  in  answer  to  a  look 
from  her  son,  nodded;  and  he,  going  over,  undid  the  bolt, 
shot  back  the  lock  and  the  visitor  entered. 

It  was  Ned  Kerins,  proprietor  of  the  farm,  which  was 
now  such  a  storm-centre  in  the  parish.  He  seemed  to 
have  taken  a  little  drink;  but  was  in  perfect  command 
of  himself,  and,  as  he  entered,  he  said  with  the  half- 
playful,  half-apologetic  tone  of  a  man  who  knows  he 
is  not  welcome: 

"You  did  not  expect  a  visitor  such  a  night  as  this?" 

"A  friend  is  always  welcome,"  was  the  reply,  as  Pete 
closed  the  door,  and  then  stood  irresolute,  waiting  for 
Kerins  to  speak. 

"  I  guessed  so.  Otherwise  I  shouldn't  have  come.  But 
I  haven't  come  empty-handed.     See!" 

And  drawing  a  bottle  of  whiskey  from  his  pocket,  he 
handed  it  to  the  old  woman. 

"  You  see,"  he  added,  sitting  on  the  box  which  Pete 
had  offered  him,  "  it  was  lonesome  up  there  at  Crossfields. 


98  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

My  two  protectors  are  now  lying  dead  drunk,  one  at  each 
side  of  the  fire  in  the  kitchen;  and  I  guess  I  should  be 
very  soon  like  them,  had  I  remained.  Get  a  couple  of 
glasses,  Pete,  and  let  us  drink  together.  It  is  ill  drinking 
alone." 

Pete  got  the  glasses  leisurely.  The  old  woman,  whilst 
rocking  the  cradle  with  her  left-hand,  kept  her  keen  black 
eyes  fixed  on  their  visitor.  She  divined  that  it  was  not 
pleasure,  nor  the  sense  of  loneliness,  that  drove  him  forth 
from  his  home  on  such  a  night. 

"Thou  hast  done  ill,  friend  Kerins,"  she  said  at  length, 
assuming  her  oracular  way  of  speaking,  "  in  leaving  thy 
home  to-night!  When  the  wild  hawk  leaves  his  nest, 
you  will  find  nought  but  blood  and  feathers  in  the  morn- 
ing." 

"  Never  fear,  Judith,"  he  cried,  as  the  liquor  gave  him 
courage.  "The  enemy  have  won  one  victory  to-day;  and 
they  will  get  drunk  over  it  to-night." 

"What  victory?"  cried  the  old  granddame.  "We 
have  not  been  out  to-day;  and  news  does  not  come  but 
slowly  here." 

"  Better  things  than  news  seem  to  have  come,"  he  said, 
laughing  and  nodding  at  the  larder. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  and  there  were  anger  and  suspicion 
in  her  tone.  "The  people  open  their  hearts  largely  to 
the  poor  at  Christmas  time." 

"Now,  don't  be  angry,  Jude,"  he  said,  with  a  laugh. 
"I'm  not  suspicious.  And  in  any  case,  the  fox  always 
kills  far  away  from  home." 

"But  you  haven't  told  us  what  the  Duggans  have 
gained,"  she  said,  waiving  the  question.  "How  have 
they  gained  a  victory,  and  over  whom?" 

"Oh,  by  Jove,"  he  said,  "over  the  biggest  man  in  the 
parish.  They  stopped  the  priest's  jues  to-day.  Not  a 
man  that  entered  the  chapel  paid  a  cent." 

The  old  woman's  eyes  glistened  with  pleasure,  but 
she  said: 

"  It  is  not  meet  for  you  to  rejoice  thereat,  friend  Kerins; 


DUNKERRIN  CASTLE  99 

for  is  it  not  on  your  account  that  he  is  at  war  with  his 
parishioners?  " 

"And  I  don't  rejoice,  friend  Judith,"  he  said,  adopting 
her  mode  of  speech.  "  I  only  wonder  that  the  great  man 
took  his  pvmishment  so  easily." 

"He  did?" 

"Yes!  he  passed  in  without  a  word,  although  he  saw 
Dick  Duggan  and  his  confederates  frightening  off  the 
people.  He  had  a  young  lady  with  him.  He  passed  in, 
and  said  not  a  word." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  seconds.  The  old  woman 
raked  out  some  white  ashes;  and  then  bade  her  son  go 
forth  and  bring  in  fresh  timber  for  the  fire. 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  she  said,  "in  coming  hither.  We 
shall  make  a  night  of  it,  when  Pete  comes  in.  Pull  thy 
chair  nearer,  and  drink!" 

"So,  as  I  was  saying,"  he  continued,  accepting  the  old 
woman's  invitation,  and  bending  over  the  smouldering 
ashes,  "  my  men  are  safe  to-night.  And,  as  I  was  saying, 
it  is  lonesome  up  there  alone;  and  then,  I  had  a  fancy  — 
Where's  Pete?" 

"Gone  for  fresh  fuel  in  the  stable.  He'll  be  back 
presently.     But  you  were  saying?  —  " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  was  saying,  or  about  to  say,  that  I  had  a 
fancy  to  spend  my  first  Christmas  night  in  Ireland  in 
the  place  where  my  forefathers  lived.  You  know  this 
old  castle  belonged  to  us?" 

"I  know  it  is  called  Dunkerrin  Castle,"  she  replied. 
"But  I  never  heard  that  you  had  any  rights  in  it." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  say  that,"  he  cried,  shuffling  on  his  rude 
seat.  "I  have  no  rights  now.  But  maybe,  I  might  yet. 
The  old  doctor  is  failing.  His  son,  the  mate,  will  never 
come  back  to  live  here  —  " 

"How  do  you  know  that,  Kerins?"  she  said.  "He 
has  been  home  from  sea  before;  and  you  must  know  his 
father  intends  the  place  for  him." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Kerins.  "You  know  more 
about  people  than  I  do.     I  keep  to  myself  always.     In 


100  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

fact,  I  am  surprised  at  my  coming  down  here  to-night; 
but  I  had  a  fancy  —  Where's  Pete?" 

"  Gone  for  fuel,"  she  said  angrily.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  so? 
Here,  Cora,  go  and  see  where  is  your  little  father  gone. 
This  man  is  impatient.     He  does  not  like  my  company." 

"Now,  now,  Judith,"  said  Kerins  soothingly,  "don't 
be  cross.  I  meant  nothing.  Don't  go  out,  lass;  the 
night  is  dark." 

"Oh,  but  she  must  go,"  said  the  old  beldame.  Then, 
turning  to  the  girl,  she  said: 

"Go!" 

"  You  see,"  said  Kerins,  "  as  I  was  saying,  I  had  a 
fancy  for  the  old  place  —  not  that  I'd  care  to  live  here ; 
but  you  see,  old  times  and  old  recollections  come  back.  My 
father  often  told  me  that  our  ancestors  were  freebooters 
here.  They  owned  neither  king  nor  country.  They 
regarded  only  their  own  kith  and  kin.  They  held  all 
this  land  which  the  old  doctor  holds  now  —  by  confisca- 
tion, of  course,  and  Crossfields,  and  the  Duggans'  farm, 
and  all  the  land  down  to  Athboy.  An'  they  used  go 
out  to  sea  —  What's  that?" 

"  Only  the  tide,"  said  Judith,  as  a  deep  roll  as  of  thunder 
reverberated  beneath  them,  and  the  seas  seemed  mounting 
up  to  submerge  the  old  castle.  "The  son  of  the  free- 
booters and  sea-pirates  should  not  shiver  on  such  firm 
ground  as  this." 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  he  said,  "and  I  am  not  the  son  of 
a  freebooter.  I  was  only  saying  my  ancestors  used  go 
out  to  sea  in  their  great  ships  by  night  —  at  least,  so  I 
heard  my  father  say  —  and,  I  suppose,  they  were  pirates 
and  smugglers.  This  old  place  is  just  the  place  for 
smuggling." 

He  did  not  see  the  fierce  look  of  hate  and  suspicion 
the  old  Sybil  cast  upon  him. 

"I  heard  of  the  Kerins,  too,"  she  said,  calmly,  dis- 
guising her  anger  and  fear.  "I  have  heard  it  said  that 
many  a  man  felt  the  point  of  their  dirks  for  less  than 
what  you  have  said  to-night." 


DUNKERRIN  CASTLE  101 

"  Yes!  it  was  a  word  and  a  blow,"  he  replied,  not  heed- 
ing the  threat.  "They  say  there  was  a  secret  chamber 
here  in  the  old  castle,  where  they  kept  their  smuggled 
goods  —  brandy  and  tobacco;  and  they  also  say,  there 
was  a  deep  hole  here  somewhere,  through  which  they 
dropped  into  the  tide  the  people  they  murdered.  Of 
course,  these  are  old  legends  and  stories  that  have  no 
meaning  now;  but  it  only  shows  what  rough  times  these 
were  —  it  was  all  fighting  and  blood,  every  man's  hand 
against  every  one  else." 

The  girl,  Cora,  came  in,  bearing  in  her  strong  arms  a 
little  pile  of  pine  logs  for  the  fire.  She  was  humming 
an  air  Hghtly;  and,  as  she  approached  the  fire,  and  flung 
on  log  by  log,  she  broke  into  the  familiar  Romany  rhyme . 

Here  the  gypsy  gemman  see, 

With  his  Romany  gib,  and  his  rome  and  dree, 

Rome  and  dree,  rum  and  dry, 

Rally  round  the  Romany  Rye. 

Then  she  rapidly  changed  it  to  the  old  nursery  rhyme: 

The  farmer  loved  a  cup  of  good  ale, 

And  called  it  very  good  stingo. 

There  was  S  with  a  T,  T  with  an  I,  I  with  an  N, 

N  with  a  G,  G  with  an  O, 

There  wasSTI  N  G  O; 

And  called  it  very  good  stingo. 

"Where  does  thy  little  father  tarry?"  said  Judith. 

" In  the  stable,"  the  girl  said.  "The  pony  is  sick.  He 
is  physicking  the  pony.  Hark!  there  the  pony  stamps 
his  little  foot.     The  pony  does  not  like  physic." 

The  "little  father"  was  not  physicking  the  pony, 
although  the  pony  was  stamping  his  "little  foot."  The 
*' little  father"  had  long  since  sped  up  the  narrow  path 
that  led  to  the  chine  of  the  hill  beneath  which  Kerins's 
farm  lay.  The  "Httle  father"  had  then  grown  more 
cautious,  for  the  great  brown  collie  gave  tongue  when  he 
heard  the  strange  step ;  but  a  whistle,  a  long,  low,  caress- 


102  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ing  whistle,  subdued  him,  and  the  "little  father,"  after 
peering  through  the  window,  carefully  entered  the  house. 
It  was  quite  true  what  Kerins  had  said.  The  two  Defence 
Union  men  were  lying,  heavy  in  drink,  one  at  each  side 
of  the  fire  that  had  now  smouldered  down  into  dead  white 
ashes.  They  were  bulky  fellows,  with  whom  the  "little 
father"  would  have  had  no  chance  had  they  been  sober. 
But  now  they  were  at  his  mercy.  He  stooped  clown, 
and  picked  their  pockets  clean  of  every  bit  of  money  they 
possessed.  Then,  looking  around,  he  spied  their  revolvers, 
ready  to  hand,  on  the  kitchen  settle.  These  he  appro- 
priated also,  having  seen  that  they  were  loaded.  Then, 
driven  to  further  covetousness  by  success,  he  put  into 
his  pocket  their  cartridge-cases.  Snap,  the  great  brown 
collie,  seemed  to  protest  by  grumbling  deeply  against 
the  robbery;  but  he  knew  the  "little  father"  well,  and, 
like  many  superior  beings,  he  stifled  his  conscience  through 
human  respect;  and  the  "little  father"  patted  him  on 
the  head,  and  said  "good  dog!"  and  he  took  it  as  his 
reward,  as  many  a  superior  being  would  take  a  similar  or 
more  solid  bribe.  Then  the  "little  father"  lightly  leaped 
the  hedge,  came  rapidly  down  the  narrow  path,  entered 
the  stable,  took  up  a  handful  of  firewood,  and  passed 
into  the  circle  around  the  fire. 

"Is  the  pony  better,  little  father?"  said  his  hopeful 
daughter  signaUing  to  him. 

"  No,"  he  said  sulkily,  "  not  much  better,  i'  faith.  I 
doubt  much  if  some  one  has  not  been  tampering  with 
her.     She's  badly  drabbered,  I'm  thinking." 

"Nonsense,  Pete,"  said  Kerins  rising,  "no  one  around 
here  would  drab  the  pony." 

"If  she  is,"  said  the  "little  father"  in  a  fury,  "many 
a  balor  will  be  drabbered  before  the  New  Year  dawns." 

"Sit  thee  down,  little  father,"  said  the  old  woman, 
"sit  thee  down  and  take  thine  ease  —  " 

"No,  woman,"  he  said.  "What  have  we  but  that 
little  pony  in  life?  Take  that  away,  an'  we're  on  the 
road  again  to-morrow." 


DUNKERRIN  CASTLE  103 

"And  then  Mr.  Kerins  could  have  his  old  castle,  which 
he  says  belongs  to  him,  through  long  generations  of  free- 
booters and  sea-rovers  —  chamber  for  smuggled  goods, 
cave  for  dead  bodies,  and  all." 

But  Kerins  protested  loudly.  He  meant  nothing  — 
nothing  at  all.  He  would  not  take  the  old  place,  ghost 
and  all,  for  a  song,  "  although,  Judith,"  he  said,  "  I  guess 
that  ghost  has  as  much  flesh  and  blood  as  you." 

If  he  had  known  how  near  he  was  to  be  torn  by  that 
ghost,  he  would  not  have  been  so  self-confident.  But 
Pete  knew  it  and  beckoned  him  forward. 

"I  must  see  you  home.  The  nights  are  dark,  and 
there  are  dangerous  people  abroad.  Come,  Mr.  Kerins, 
I  must  see  you  home." 

Kerins  protested;  but  the  ''little  father"  was  obdurate, 
and  both  staggered  up  the  rough  path,  or  boreen,  that 
led  to  Crossfields. 

"The  Duggans  are  not  stirring  to-night,"  said  Kerins, 
as  he  looked  down  into  the  dark  valley  where  a  few  lights 
were  still  twinkling.  Then  the  dog  gave  tongue  again; 
but,  recognizing  his  master,  he  leaped  and  sprang  upon 
him  as  if  he  would  say: 

"Welcome!  Where  were  you?  Queer  things  have 
been  happening  here,  which  my  canine  intelligence  can- 
not fathom.     Now,  things  may  be  cleared  up." 

And  when  Pete  laid  his  hand  on  the  dog's  head  to 
caress  him,  Snap  turned  away  sulkily  and  growled. 

"What  has  come  over  Snap?"  said  Kerins,  lighting  a 
candle.     "I  thought  he  and  you  were  great  friends." 

"So  we  are!  so  we  are!"  said  Pete  cheerfully.  "But 
you  know  dogs  are  dangerous  at  night  even  to  friends." 

But  Snap  had  gone  over,  and  after  sniffing  and  mouth- 
ing around  the  drunken  men,  he  lay  down  between  them, 
and  placed  his  huge  head  on  his  front  paws  in  an  attitude 
of  aggressive  watchfulness. 

"  You  see  how  safe  everything  is  with  such  a  dog," 
said  Kerins  proudly. 

"  Yes!  everything  is  very  safe,"  said  the  "little  father." 


104  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Goodnight!" 

"Good-night!"  said  Kerins.  "By  the  way,  Pete,  I 
think  I'll  take  that  ugly  lass  of  yours  in  service.  I'll 
give  her  good  wages,  you  know,  and  plenty  of  good 
food  —  " 

"You  must  ask  herself,"  said  the  "little  father." 
"  She  has  a  will  of  her  own." 

He  made  his  way  home  in  the  mist  and  fog;  but  before 
he  was  half-way  down  the  hill,  he  heard  his  daughter's 
voice  aloud  on  the  midnight  mists: 

We  sow  not,  nor  toil,  yet  we  glean  from  the  soil 

As  much  as  its  reapers  do ; 
And  wherever  we  rove,  we  feed  on  the  cove, 
Who  gibes  at  the  mumping  crew. 

So  the  king  to  his  hall,  and  the  steed  to  his  stall, 

And  the  cit  to  his  bilking  board ; 
But  we  are  not  bound  to  an  acre  of  ground, 
For  our  home  is  the  houseless  sward. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  Challenge  and  Its  Answer 

"The  Duggans  are  not  stirring  to-night!"  said  Kerins; 
and  he  was  right.  Down  there  in  the  hollow  where  the 
house  nestled  in  its  clump  of  trees,  no  Christmas  lights 
were  visible,  like  those  in  the  houses,  scattered  here  and 
there,  in  the  vicinity.  It  was  a  sad  Christmas  there,  and 
the  reasons  were  these. 

No  sooner  did  Dick  Duggan  and  his  comrades,  ill- 
disposed  fellows  from  the  neighbourhood,  realize  that 
they  had  gained  a  triumph  over  the  parish  priest  through 
the  terrorism  they  exercised  over  the  tenantry,  than  they 
also  realized  that  they  had  gained  a  Pyrrhic  victory. 
They  adjourned  to  a  public-house  in  the  village  imme- 
diately after  Mass,  and  spent  the  afternoon  drinking 
there.  But  even  on  their  way  thither,  they  were  passed 
by  silently  by  group  after  group  of  peasants,  who,  with 
heads  hung  down,  and  sulky  visages,  seemed  to  acknowl- 
edge their  own  shame,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  be  en- 
raged against  the  men  who  had  led  them  into  it.  These 
had  all  the  consciousness  of  a  great  crime;  and  they  drank 
heavily  to  drown  it. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  when  the  night  was  just  falling, 
Dick  Duggan  made  his  way  home,  having  parted  with 
his  comrades  just  outside  the  village.  All  that  day, 
since  Mass  time,  there  were  storms  raging  in  the  house- 
hold. One  of  the  boys  defended  Dick's  action,  and  the 
sister,  with  the  usual  illogical  prejudices  and  temper,  was 
bitter  against  the  parish  priest.  She  seemed  to  take  it 
as  a  special  offence  that  he  had  come  to  church  that 
morning,  accompanied  by  a  young  lady,  whom  no  one 

105 


106  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

as  yet  knew  to  be  his  niece.  The  father  was  silent,  as 
all  these  men  are,  taking  no  sides,  and  seeming  to  regard 
the  whole  discussion  as  a  neutral  who  had  no  interest  in 
it.  But  the  old  woman  was  overwhelmed  with  shame  and 
sorrow;  and  the  whole  afternoon  she  passed  from  parox- 
ysms of  tears  to  paroxysms  of  anger;  and  it  was  difficult 
to  say  which  of  these  it  was  most  harrowing  to  witness. 

When  Dick  with  somewhat  unsteady  feet  crossed  the 
threshold  of  his  home  that  Christmas  night,  it  was  well 
for  him  that  his  senses  were  more  or  less  dulled  by  drink; 
for  he  could  hardly  have  borne  the  torrent  of  contempt 
and  anger  which  his  mother  poured  forth.  For  a  few 
moments  she  was  silent,  as  if  wishing  to  allow  the  spec- 
tacle of  his  degradation  in  drink  to  sink  into  the  souls 
of  her  audience,  and  then  she  let  loose  the  floods  of  anger 
and  hate. 

"Wisha,  thin,"  she  said,  facing  him,  as  he  sat  inse- 
curely on  the  settle  in  the  kitchen,  "isn't  this  nice  busi- 
ness I'm  after  hearing  about  you  this  morning?" 

She  spoke  calmly,  but  it  was  an  enforced  calmness,  as 
if  she  were  storing  up  her  wrath  for  the  final  explosion. 

"What?"  said  Dick,  open-mouthed,  and  with  watery 
eyes  trying  to  fix  his  attention  on  his  mother. 

"What?"  she  replied.  "You  don't  know,  I  suppose. 
You  don't  know,  you  —  blagard,  what  the  whole  parish 
witnessed  to-day;  and  what  the  parish  will  be  ringing 
wid'  whin  we  are  in  our  graves." 

"Wah'r  you  talkin'  about?"  said  Dick,  trying  to  be 
angry  in  turn. 

"I'm  talkin'  about  you,  you  blagard,  an'  thim  that 
wor  wid  you  this  mornin'  whin  you  insulted  the  minister 
of  God.  To  think  that  a  child  of  mine  should  ever  lift  his 
hand  agin  God's  priesht!  To  think  that  I  rared  a  ruffian 
that  has  disgraced  us  forever!  How  can  we  ever  lift  our 
heads  agin?  Or  face  the  dacent  people  —  we  who  wor 
always  respected  in  the  parish?  Where  did  the  black 
drop  come  in,  I  wondher,  for  the  Duggans  and  Kellys 
wor   always   clane   and   dacent   people?    The   ould  boy 


A  CHALLENGE  AND   ITS  ANSWER  107 

must  have  soraethin'  to  say  to  you,  you  blagard;  and 
shlipped  in  the  black  blood  somehow  or  other;  for  'twas 
never  hard  in  our  family  afore  that  we  wint  again  the 
prieshts!" 

"The  prieshts  must  be  taught  their  lesson  too,"  said 
Dick,  waking  up  a  little,  "We're  not  goin'  to  lave 
prieshts,  nor  annybody  else,  ride  over  us." 

"And  who  was  ridin'  over  you,  you  ruffian?"  said  his 
mother.  "What  had  the  priesht  to  say  to  you  or  the 
Yank  outside?  He  had  nayther  hand,  act,  or  part  in 
your  thransactions.  Well  become  that  gintleman,  who's 
the  talk  of  the  counthry  for  his  larnin'  and  knowledge, 
to  come  between  a  parcel  of  amadhauns  like  ye,  that 
can't  bless  yereselves.  Begor,  we're  comin'  to  a  quare 
pass,  whin  a  gintleman  like  our  parish  priesht  must 
come  down,  if  you  plaze,  and  turn  out  wan  farmer  to 
plaze  another." 

"  He  shouldn't  have  imployed  the  grabber's  nephew  in 
his  school,"  said  the  daughter,  who  took  it  as  an  insult 
that  the  parish  priest  had  not  promptly  yielded  to  the 
popular  demand. 

"Indeed?"  sneered  the  old  woman.  "The  parish 
priesht  of  Doonvarragh  must  consult  an  onshuch  like 
you,  that  knows  no  more  about  a  school  than  a  cow 
does  about  a  holiday,  whinever  he  is  to  appint  a  school- 
master. Wisha,  thin,  perhaps,  you  had  a  notion  of  the 
place  yerself,  me  fine  lady!  You  could  tache  'em  pot- 
hooks I  suppose,  and  to  say  their  prayers  backwards, 
like  the  divil;  and  it  isn't  much  of  that  same  you're  fond 
of  doing.  You'd  rather  be  looking  in  yere  looking-glass 
than  in  yere  prayer-book  anny  day,  I'll  warrant  you!" 

"There!  There!"  said  the  old  man  interfering,  "let 
us  have  some  pace  and  aize  this  Christmas  night,  at  all 
events!" 

"Tisn't  I'm  disthurbin'  yere  pace,  John  Duggan," 
said  his  wife,  "but  thim  that's  brought  shame  into  this 
house.  Oh,  wirra!  wirra!"  she  cried,  sitting  down  on 
the  sugan  chair  near  the  fire,  and  bending  herself  back- 


108  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

ward  and  forward,  opening  out  her  hands  in  an  attitude 
of  sorrow  and  despair,  "  to  think  that  I  should  see  the 
day  whin  a  son  of  mine  would  disgrace  me!  To  think 
that  for  two  hundred  years,  no  one  could  pint  a  finger 
at  the  Kellys,  until  now!  Manny  and  manny  a  time  I 
hard  my  mother  say,  God  rest  her  sowl !  that  no  wan  ever 
could  lay  a  wet  finger  on  a  Kelly,  or  thrace  anny  maneness 
to  the  family.  An'  sure  the  Duggans,  too,  were  dacent 
people  enough.  But  now,  now,  oh!  wirra!  wirra!  'tis  a 
sore  and  sorrowful  day  for  us ;  an'  a  day  that  'uU  be  remim- 
bered.  For  sure,  every  wan  knows  that  nayther  luck 
nor  grace  ever  followed  a  family  that  had  hand,  act, 
or  part  agin  a  priesht.  An'  'tisn't  to-day,  nor  to-morra, 
we'll  know  it.  Whin  I'm  in  my  cowld  grave,  an'  the  sooner 
God  takes  me  to  himself  now,  the  betther,  praised  be 
His  Holy  Name!  there'll  be  trouble  an'  sorra  on  thim 
that  come  afther  me  —  " 

"There,  there,  Nance!"  said  her  husband,  who  was 
more  deeply  affected  by  his  wife's  sorrow  than  by  her 
anger,  "what  do  you  want  makin'  yersel'  sick  in  that 
way?  Sure,  what's  done,  is  done,  an'  there's  no  reme- 
dyin'  it  now!" 

"That's  just  what  throubles  me,  John  Duggan,"  she 
replied,  not  looking  around,  but  still  continuing  her  solil- 
oquy before  the  fire,  "that's  just  what's  throublin'  me. 
There's  no  rimedy,  there's  no  rimedy,  as  you  say.  The 
curse  of  the  Almighty  will  fall  on  us,  and  there's  no  hand 
to  put  His  back.  Look  at  the  Mullanys,  I  remimber 
when  they  wor  the  finest  family  in  the  parish  —  fine 
boys  and  bouncing  girls;  an'  look  at  'em  now.  Wan 
dying  of  decline,  another  up  in  Cork  madhouse;  another 
across  the  says,  and  no  tidings  of  her!  Look  at  thim 
Condons!  I  remimber  whin  they  war  milkin'  twinty 
cows;  and  now  they're  glad  to  get  a  sup  of  milk  in  charity 
from  the  naybors.  And  this  d — d  blagard,"  she  cried, 
her  sorrow  rising  into  a  sudden  fury,  as  she  snatched  up 
a  burning  stick,  and  flew  at  him,  "wid  all  thim  examples 
before  his  face  —  Git  out  of  my  house,  you  ruffian,  and 


A  CHALLENGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER  109 

never  set  foot  inside  my  dure  agin.  Git  out,  and  go  to 
them  that  are  betther  company  for  you  than  your  ould 
mother,  and  never  let  me  see  yer  face  agin!" 

She  would  have  struck  him  with  the  lighted  brand, 
and  he  would  have  never  resented  it,  so  deep  and  awful 
is  the  reverence  in  which  these  Irish  mothers  are  held 
by  their  children,  but  the  old  man  interfered,  and  drag- 
ging away  the  boy  from  his  mother's  fury,  he  said: 

"Come  out,  Dick,  and  lave  some  pace  here  this  blessed 
night.     Come  out  into  the  haggard,  I  say!" 

The  young  man  seemed  to  hesitate,  but  his  mother  said : 

"Go  out,  as  yer  father  bids  you,"  she  says,  "or  we'll 
have  blood  spilt  on  the  flure  to-night.  Go  out,  an'  take 
wid  you,  if  you  can,  the  curse  you've  brought  on  this 
dacent  house.  An'  sure  wid  wan  like  you  widin  the 
walls,  'tis  no  place  for  the  blessed  Christmas  candle  to 
be  lighting." 

And  going  over,  she  blew  out  the  Christmas  candle, 
that  had  been  burning  since  midnight.  It  seemed  so 
like  the  ceremony  of  public  excommunication  from  the 
Church,  of  which  the  peasantry  retain  very  vivid,  if 
sometimes  erroneous,  traditions,  that  great  awe  fell  on 
the  entire  household  circle;  and,  as  the  smoking  wick 
flared,  and  sank  and  died  away,  a  darkness,  as  of  death, 
or  something  worse  than  death,  fell  on  the  place.  The 
girl  fell  on  her  knees  to  pray,  and  the  men  filed  out,  one 
by  one,  into  the  night. 

The  little  party  of  three,  gathered  around  the  pastor's 
fire  after  tea,  was  a  pleasant  one.  Despite  the  events  of 
the  morning,  the  spirits  of  the  two  priests  had  risen 
joyously;  and  it  seemed  as  if  his  youth  had  been  given 
back  to  the  old  man.  It  might  have  been  the  presence  of 
his  niece  that  had  restored  his  long-lost  faith  in  humanity, 
for  nothing  seems  to  redeem  the  race  except  the  freshness 
and  buoyancy  and  hope  of  childhood,  or  the  ingenuous 
charms  of  early  youth,  as  yet  unspoiled  by  self-con- 
sciousness, or  a  sense  of  the  deadly  perils  of  life. 


no  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Tea  was  over,  and  they  had  drawn  their  chairs  closer 
around  the  fire,  for  though  the  night  was  warm,  the  cold 
chill  of  damp  was  in  the  air,  and  there  is  a  friendly  look 
about  a  fire  apart  altogether  from  its  utility.  Dr.  William 
Gray  was  in  his  happiest  mood.  Seated  in  his  armchair, 
and  with  his  handkerchief  spread  out  on  his  knees,  and 
with  a  pinch  of  brown  snuff  in  his  fingers,  he  went  over 
and  recalled  and  narrated  scene  after  scene  in  his  college 
days,  told  quaint  stories  about  professors,  whose  names, 
once  famous,  had  long  sunk  beneath  the  waters  of  oblivion; 
and  then  passing  on  to  his  priestly  life,  with  all  its  varied 
experiences,  he  told  story  after  story,  each  one  more 
humorous,  more  quaint,  or  more  tragic,  than  another. 
His  two  hearers  listened  spellbound,  for  he  was  a  first- 
class  raconteur,  and  could  throw  humour  or  pathos  into 
his  voice,  especially  as  he  spoke  of  the  contrasts  between 
his  own  consciousness  and  the  deadly  terror  he  used  to 
inspire  into  the  minds  of  the  people.  He  told  of  a 
famous  election,  when  the  bribing  parties  used  to  go 
around  dressed  in  women's  clothes  to  avoid  recognition, 
and  how  bribes  used  to  be  placed  on  the  slabs  of  tombs 
by  night,  and  intimation  be  given  to  voters  to  seek  them 
in  such  uncanny  places;  and  how  a  certain  ghost  used 
to  pocket  those  bribes,  and  frighten  the  very  lives  out 
of  the  dishonest  burgesses  who  sought  them.  And  of  a 
certain  night,  when  spies  were  placed  by  the  opposing 
parties  around  his  house,  and  how  he  discharged  an 
ancient  blunderbuss  into  the  midst  of  them.  And  how 
he  restored  to  speech  and  hearing  a  certain  dumb  and 
deal  impostor,  by  having  her  taken  out  in  a  boat  unto 
the  deep  seas,  and  flung  overboard  by  the  faithful  mari- 
ners. He  recalled  snatches  of  old  ballads  he  had  composed 
at  election-times,  with  sundry  comical  refrains,  and  topi- 
cal allusions,  which  would  be  then  unintelligible.  And 
he  told  also  of  certain  weird  and  supernatural  wonders 
he  had  witnessed  in  the  course  of  a  long  missionary  career 
■ —  strange  manifestations  of  the  terrific  powers  that  lie 
veiled  behind  the  silences  of  Immensity,  and  that  rarely, 


A  CHALLENGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER  111 

but  indubitably,  break  through  the  close  veil  and  mask 
that  hide  the  faces  of  spirits  from  the  eyes  of  flesh,  and 
muffle  the  sound  of  voices  that  we  would  give  worlds 
to  hear.  Ah,  yes!  a  priest  doesn't  reach  his  three-score 
years  and  more  without  experiencing  the  presence  of 
many  witnesses  to  the  Unseen  — •  that  awful  world,  that 
lies  so  close  around  us,  and  envelops  us  in  its  mysterious 
folds,  but  which  we  in  vain  try  to  penetrate  by  the  eye 
of  intellect  or  the  eye  of  sense,  until  we  pass  from  the 
shadow  and  the  symbol  unto  the  Truth.  He  spoke  of 
all  such  things  with  a  certain  awe  and  mysteriousness 
in  his  voice,  that  deeply  impressed  his  hearers,  not  with 
a  creepy  feeling  of  dread  for  jabbering  and  gibing  spectres, 
but  with  that  reverential  sensation  of  holy  fear  which 
such  things  have  a  right  to  demand.  And  his  curate, 
listening  with  all  his  ears  to  these  interesting  narratives, 
spoken  so  calmly,  almost  so  indifferently,  by  this  great 
man,  caught  himself  wondering,  again  and  again,  whether 
this  fascinating  and  delightful  old  priest  could  be  the 
same  as  he  who  was  shunned  and  dreaded  by  the  priests 
of  half  the  diocese  as  an  unreasonable  and  intractable 
old  autocrat,  and  whose  name  was  a  synonym  of  terror 
in  half  the  parishes  around. 

Henry  Liston  was  sinking  into  a  state  of  blissful  scep- 
ticism about  human  opinions  in  general,  so  amply  refuted 
by  the  common  estimate  of  this  man,  when  a  loud,  single 
knock  was  heard  at  the  hall-door. 

There  was  instant  silence  in  the  group  by  the  fire- 
side. 

"A  sick-call!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "No  Christmas 
Night  was  ever  known  to  pass  without  a  sick-call."  The 
pastor  looked  serious. 

There  was  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall,  and  then 
the  timid  knock  at  the  door. 

The  old  housekeeper  came  in  and  announced  that  a 
man  wanted  to  see  the  parish  priest. 

"Get  his  name!"  said  the  latter. 

"I  think  'tis  Duggan,  sir!"  she  said,  closing  the  parlour 


112  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

door  gently  behind  her,  and  speaking  in  a  whisper.  "  Dick 
Duggan  —  and  he  has  the  sign  of  drink  on  him ! " 

"That's  the  scoundrel  that  kept  the  people  back  from 
the  collection  this  morning,"  said  Henry  Liston,  "  and 
that  mocked  and  jeered  at  you." 

It  was  an  unhappy  word.  The  pastor's  forehead,  a 
moment  ago  calm  and  unruffled,  drew  down  into  an  angry 
frown;  his  eyebrows  bent  in,  and  his  thin  lips,  on  which 
a  minute  ago  was  a  smile  and  a  laugh,  now  grew  thinner 
and  closed  together  in  a  firm,  rigid  line  of  determination. 
After  a  moment's  pause,  he  rose  up  and  went  out. 

It  was  Dick  Duggan.  When  he  had  left  his  father's 
house  under  the  sting  of  his  mother's  tongue,  he  had 
wandered  wildly  up  and  down  the  haggart  behind  the 
plantation  that  skirted  their  boundaries.  The  scene 
with  his  mother  had  almost  sobered  him;  but  he  was 
tortured  with  misgivings  about  his  own  conduct  and  with 
hate  for  everyone  that  rebuked  him.  One  moment,  his 
temper  broke  into  a  furious  storm  of  wrath  as  he  recalled 
the  bitter  words  that  had  fallen  from  his  mother's  lips; 
the  next,  a  feeling  of  dreadful  terror,  that  caused  the  per- 
spiration to  burst  out  in  cold  beads  on  his  forehead,  came 
down  on  his  abject  and  degraded  spirit,  when  he  remem- 
bered the  prophecy  his  mother  uttered  as  to  the  curse 
that  was  sure  to  fall  on  anyone  who  had  opposed  or 
insulted  the  minister  of  God.  It  was  in  such  a  mood  of 
agony  his  father  found  him.  The  old  man,  although 
equally  bitter  about  the  loss  of  Crossfields,  did  not  sym- 
pathize with  the  extreme  measures  all  his  sons,  but 
especially  Dick,  had  taken.  Yet  he  had  a  latent  feeling 
of  gratitude  toward  him,  for  so  zealously  espousing  the 
family  cause  against  the  stranger. 

"I  am  thinkin',  Dick,"  said  the  old  man,  removing 
the  short  pipe  from  his  mouth,  when  he  had  recognized 
his  son  in  the  darkness,  "that  we'd  betther  ind  this." 

"Ind  what?"  said  Dick  sullenly. 

"Ind  all  this  dissinsion,"  said  his  father.  "We've 
got  enough  of  it." 


A  CHALLENGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER  113 

"'Twill  never  ind,"  said  Dick,  savagely,  "till  the  grab- 
ber goes  out  of  Crossfields." 

"That's  wan  thing,"  said  his  father  sententiously, 
"and  we  may  put  it  aside  for  the  present.  I'm  spakin' 
of  our  dissinsion  with  the  priesht.     Betther  ind  that." 

"'Twasn't  I  begin  it,"  said  Dick.  "Let  him  that 
begin  it  shtop  it,  an'  not  be  goin'  agin  the  people." 

"You  mane  about  the  tacher?"  said  his  father. 

"I  do,"  said  Dick.  "Let  him  sind  Carmody  away; 
an'  there'll  be  pace  in  the  parish." 

"But,  afther  all,"  said  his  father,  "what  has  the  bhoy 
done?     Shure  there's  nothin'  agin  him." 

"Nothin'?"  said  Dick,  in  utter  amazement  at  his 
father's  perversion.  "  Nothin'?  Isn't  he  Kerins's  nephew 
be  the  mother's  side?  Isn't  that  enough,  an'  too 
much?" 

"  'Tis  bad  enough,"  said  the  father,  "  but  how  can  the 
bhoy  help  that?  Sure,  'tisn't  his  fault,  if  his  uncle  is  a 
grabber?  " 

"  Yerra,  what's  comin'  over  you?"  said  his  son,  irrever- 
ently.    "  I  never  hard  them  sintiments  afore." 

"  I  misbedoubt  me,"  said  his  father,  "  but  we're  wrong. 
In  anny  case,  be  said  and  led  by  me,  and  make  your  pace 
with  the  priesht  an'  with  God.  You  hard  what  your 
mother  said." 

It  chimed  in  so  neatly  with  Dick's  reflections  when  he 
was  not  at  fever-point,  that  he  grew  silent.  After  some 
reflection,  he  said: 

"What  would  you  want  me  to  do?" 

"Make  your  pace  with  the  priesht,  I  say,"  said  the 
father  roughly,  feehng  that  he  was  gaining  ground. 

"  Yes,  but  how  am  I  to  face  him?  Begor,  I'd  rather 
face  a  mad  bull." 

"They  say  he's  aisy  enough,  af  you  take  him  aisy," 
said  his  father.  "The  night  is  airly  ayet.  He's  hardly 
over  his  Christmas  dinner;  an'  if  ye  were  to  walk  down  — " 

"Yerra,  is  it  to-night?"  said  Dick.  "An'  at  this  hour 
of  the  night?     Begor,  he'd  throw  me  out  on  my  head. 

Q 


114  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

He's  a  hard  man,  an'  you  know  it.  Look  at  thim  poor 
girls  of  the  Comerfords  that  he  dhruv  to  America  last 
year;  an'  that  poor  girl  of  the  Clancys  that  died  of  fright 
in  her  confinement.  He  has  an  awful  tongue;  an'  the 
divil  mind  him  if  he's  getting  it  back  now." 

Clearly,  Dick's  temper  was  running  up  to  fever-point 
again. 

"Thin,"  he  continued,  "he  can't  lave  even  his  curates 
alone.  There,  nothin'  will  do  him  but  to  get  poor  Father 
Conway  removed,  and  bring  that  caushtheen  here,  who 
ought  be  under  his  mother's  wing  ayet." 

This  uncomplimentary  allusion  to  our  young  curate 
did  not  please  his  father,  who  at  once  cut  short  the  dis- 
cussion. 

"Very  well,"  he  said.  "You  won't  be  said,  nor  led 
by  me  or  your  mother.  Thin  you'd  betther  be  lookin' 
for  your  night's  lodgings  elsewhere;  for,  be  this  an'  be 
that,  you'll  not  shleep  undher  my  roof  till  you  make 
your  pace  with  the  priesht." 

And  he  turned  away  abruptly. 

Thus  driven  unexpectedly  into  a  corner,  Dick  Duggan 
began  to  reflect.  Clearly  things  were  turning  against  him. 
The  hero  of  the  chapel-yard  in  the  morning  was  the 
beaten  coward  in  the  haggart  at  night.  He  shivered  as  he 
thought  for  the  first  time  that  he  was  homeless,  and  under 
the  awful  shadow  of  a  curse.  But  then  the  dread  and 
shame  of  facing  his  parish  priest  became  overpowering. 
Agitated  and  nervous,  but  driven  by  some  secret  and 
involuntary  emotion,  he  found  himself  on  the  high  road 
leading  down  to  Doonvarragh,  He  strode  on,  not  with 
any  direct  object,  least  of  all  with  the  wish  to  comply 
with  his  father's  orders.  Then,  after  walking  a  couple 
of  miles,  and  meeting  no  one,  for  the  people  never  venture 
from  their  own  hearthsides  on  Christmas  Night,  he  found 
himself  suddenly  in  front  of  the  public-house,  where  he 
had  been  drinking  all  the  morning.  He  knocked  rather 
timidly;  and,  when  invited  to  enter,  refused,  because  it 
always  seems  an  intrusion  to  trespass  on  the  privacy  of 


A  CHALLENGE  AND  ITS  ANSWER  115 

families  on  Christmas  Night.  He  asked  for  a  glass  of 
whiskey  and  got  it,  drinking  it  hastily  outside  the  door. 
He  then  asked  the  hour  of  night;  and  was  told  it  was  just 
past  eight  o'clock.  He  then  strode  forward.  That  glass 
of  spirits  was  a  complete  knock-down  blow  to  reason,  just 
like  the  sharp  blow  of  a  powerful  athlete  when  his  beaten 
adversary  is  rising  helplessly  from  the  ground.  Before 
he  could  realize  his  position,  he  was  standing  in  the  hall 
of  the  presbytery,  the  great  figure  of  his  parish  priest 
towering  over  him,  and  the  sharp  voice  piercing  his  ears: 

"Well?     What  do  you  want?" 

Dick  shuffled  from  one  foot  to  another,  and  looked 
dumbly  at  the  priest. 

Again  came  the  sharp  question,  like  a  pistol  shot  in  his 
ear: 

"Well,  well.     Come,  what  do  you  want?" 

"I  kem  to  shay  — "  said  Dick,  and  stopped  there, 
paralyzed  in  utterance. 

"I  kem  to  shay,"  he  repeated,  awed  by  the  ominous 
silence,  "that  we  wants  no  more  dissinsions  in  par'sh." 

"Go  on,"  said  the  voice  above  his  head. 

"  If  you  dismish  Carmody,  we're  goin'  to  forgive  you 
—  ever'  thin'!" 

The  next  moment,  he  felt  his  neck  gripped  by  a  giant, 
and  he  was  sprawling,  in  an  instant,  on  the  gravel  outside 
the  door. 

A  great  gloom  then  came  down  on  the  little  circle 
around  the  fire.  Henry  Liston  rose  up,  and  said  he  should 
get  away.  Three  miles  were  no  joke  at  that  time  of 
night.  Annie  fluttered  into  the  kitchen,  her  face  white 
with  alarm.  Far  up  on  the  hifls,  John  Duggan  was  walk- 
ing to  and  fro  in  the  thick  darkness,  waiting,  waiting, 
until  he  should  welcome  his  repentant  and  forgiven  son, 
and  take  him  into  his  home  absolved  from  all  sin  and 
malediction.  But  a  lonely  figure,  with  soiled  clothes, 
and  face  and  hands  torn  and  bleeding,  was  wending  its 
way  slowly  up  the  hifl,  hate  and  fear,  fear  and  hate, 
playing  havoc  with  the  soul  within.     And  the  midnight 


116  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

hour  struck  on  the  hall-clock,  and  the  Pastor  of  Doon- 
varragh  was  still  striding  up  and  down,  up  and  down 
along  the  narrow  strip  of  carpet  in  his  dining-room,  his 
hands  tightly  clasped  behind  his  back,  and  his  brain  on 
fire  with  many  thoughts,  the  worst  and  best  of  which 
was  one  of  exceeding  humiliation. 


CHAPTER  XII 

His  Sister's  Story 

St.  Stephen's  morning  broke  clear  and  frosty,  for 
during  the  night  the  mists  had  cleared,  and  the  early 
dawn  grew  cold  and  still  in  the  winter  starlight.  Dr. 
William  Gray  had  to  go  to  his  church  to  celebrate  early 
Mass,  as  this  was  one  of  his  days  of  obligation;  but  he 
arranged  to  be  back  to  breakfast.  As  usual  with  him 
now  in  his  old  age,  it  was  not  the  pleasant  things  of  the 
day  before  that  recurred  to  his  memory  on  waking,  but 
that  last  act  which,  however  justified,  was  yet  the  occa- 
sion of  the  deepest  sorrow  and  humility  to  him.  He 
tried  to  forget  it,  to  shake  it  off,  but  it  would  recur.  He 
was  not  self-disciplined  enough  to  keep  his  anger  in  check 
when  aroused;  nor  to  dismiss  the  remorse  that  was  its 
invariable  accompaniment.  The  necessary  attention  and 
recollection  at  Mass  relieved  his  mind  somewhat  of  the 
strain;  and  it  was  in  a  better  mood  he  returned  home, 
and  sat  down  to  breakfast  with  his  niece.  If  he  had 
not  been  so  proud  and  self-contained  a  man,  he  would 
have  alluded  to  the  unhappy  event  that  had  closed  the 
simple  festivities  of  the  night  before ;  and  this  would  have 
been  the  happiest  and  surest  anodyne  for  his  painful 
thoughts.  But  this  was  not  his  way.  Nevertheless,  he 
was  comparatively  cheerful,  although  anxious;  and, 
strange  to  say,  his  chief  anxiety  now  was  the  thought, 
what  impression  would  that  event  have  made  on  the 
young  American  girl,  who  was  now  under  his  protection. 
For  we  in  Ireland  have  a  curious  reverence  for  the  opin- 
ion of  outsiders :  and  a  nervous  dread  lest  we  should  figurfe 
badly  in  their  sight. 

117 


118  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Not  a  word,  however,  was  said  about  the  unpleasant 
subject;  but,  toward  the  close  of  breakfast,  some  remark 
passed  by  his  niece  made  the  old  man  push  aside  his  plate 
and  cup,  and  say: 

"By  the  way,  you  haven't  told  me  as  yet  about  your 
father,  and  your  life  in  America.  I  am  not  curious, 
Annie,"  he  said,  his  voice  taking  on  a  gentleness  that 
was  all  the  more  affecting  because  so  apparently  foreign 
to  his  character,  "but,  if  I  am  to  be  your  guardian  now, 
we  must  make  no  mistakes;  and  you  know  the  past 
always  throws  light  on  the  future." 

The  tears  started  at  once  to  the  girl's  eyes,  for  she 
was  just  entering  that  time  of  life  when  everything  be- 
comes wonderful  and  mysterious,  and  the  feelings  are 
just  under  the  touch  of  speech;  but  she  gently  brushed 
them  aside,  and  said,  with  just  the  shadow  of  a  sob: 

"There  is  so  little  to  tell,  Uncle.  It  has  all  passed  so 
swiftly  that  my  life  appears  to  have  been  bunched  to- 
gether in  a  few  short  facts." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  and  then  said  simply: 

"  You  know  father  was  an  engineer  —  not  a  mere 
engine-driver,  you  know,  but  a  civil  engineer,  or  archi- 
tect. The  truth  is,  I  hardly  remember  him,  for  during 
my  childhood  he  was  so  taken  up  with  his  work  that  we 
never  saw  him,  except  perhaps  once  a  month,  when  he 
would  come  back,  worn  and  haggard,  from  some  long 
journey.  He  appeared  to  like  to  come  home;  but  he 
looked  always  anxious  and  fretful.  The  lives  of  men  in 
America  are  pretty  strenuous,  Uncle." 

"So  I've  heard,"  her  uncle  replied.  "Nervous  energy 
is  calculated  there  by  tons,  not  pounds." 

"Somehow,"  the  girl  continued,  "there  seems  to  be 
no  rest,  no  lying-down,  you  know,  and  not  bothering 
about  things,  but  letting  them  take  their  way.  'Tis  all 
rush,  rush;  and  when  one  thing  is  done,  another  turns 
up  to  be  done.  However,  poor  father  had  no  rest,  no 
home.  And  dear  mother  shared  the  unrest.  Often  and 
often,  I  caught  her  looking  at  me  and  my  little  brother 


HIS  SISTER'S  STORY  119 

—  you  know  I  had  a  little  brother,  Billy  —  the  dearest, 
sweetest,  little  chap  that  ever  lived.  All  gone  —  all 
gone  now  —  oh!  uncle  dear,"  she  cried  in  a  sudden  par- 
oxysm of  grief,  "where  are  they  gone?     What  is  it  all 

—  what  is  it  all?" 

Her  uncle  made  no  reply.  It  was  no  time  for  theo- 
logical disquisitions  —  only  for  the  lonely  heart  to  sob 
itself  into  silence.  After  a  few  minutes,  the  girl  composed 
herself  and  went  on: 

"  After  Billy's  death,  I  was  sent  on  to  school.  I  suppose 
I  was  fretting  too  much  about  Billy.  Or,  perhaps  they 
thought  I  was  getting  old  enough  for  school;  but  I  was 
sent  on  to  the  Loretto  Convent  at  Niagara  Falls;  and 
there  I  spent  three  years." 

"Is  the  Convent  at  the  Falls?"  said  her  uncle,  rather 
to  give  her  time  to  think  than  through  any  curiosity. 

"Yes,  practically,  right  over  the  Falls.  And  do  you 
know,  Uncle,  I  think  the  place  had  as  much  to  do  with 
my  —  education,  or  what  shall  I  call  it?  —  formation,  as 
even  my  class-work,  and  that  was  very  constant,  and,  I 
think,  very  select  and  high,  you  know!" 

Her  uncle  nodded. 

"  You  know.  Uncle,"  the  girl  went  on,  "  when  you  are 
face  to  face  with  awful  things,  you  grow  small  yourself, 
or  you  shrink  and  become  humble.  Somehow,  the  girh 
at  Niagara  were  not  at  all  like  the  girls  you  meet  in  a 
city,  although  like  myself  they  were  all  city  girls.  We 
used  go  around  with  a  certain  awe,  or  strangeness,  as 
if  we  were  living  in  an  enchanted  place.  And  you  know, 
if  you  stood  over  the  Falls,  you  couldn't  speak.  No  one 
speaks,  when  looking  at  the  Falls.  It  is  only  when  you 
come  away,  and  the  awful  thunder  dies  away  into  a 
distant  rumbling,  that  you  recover  the  use  of  speech. 
Of  course,  the  first  nights  we  were  there,  there  was  no 
sleeping.  But  then,  the  first  nights  at  home  there  was 
no  sleeping  either." 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  her  attentive  uncle,  "it  is  all  habit, 
habit,  the  worst  and  best  of  tyrants." 


120  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"But  the  sensation  when  you  awoke  in  the  morning, 
especially  in  winter,  when  the  river  is  full,  and  listened 
to  the  awful  rush  of  waters  in  the  darkness,  was  almost 
too  much.  You  got  up  stunned;  and  it  was  only  after 
breakfast,  you  could  face  real  work.  For  the  noise  was 
in  your  ears,  and  the  tumult  was  in  your  mind;  and  you 
went  around  like  one  in  a  trance.  You  should  see  Niagara, 
Uncle.  Some  one  says  that  it  is  Niagara  that  makes 
America  what  it  is;  that  it  is  the  electric  throb  of  Niagara 
that  is  felt  through  the  entire  continent,  and  makes  the 
Americans  so  wide-awake  and  restless." 

"  'Twouldn't  do,  'twould  never  do  for  us,"  said  her 
uncle.  "  'Tis  the  mercy  of  God  that  we  have  such  wet 
skies  and  such  a  drooping  atmosphere.  We  Irish  would 
turn  the  world  topsy-turvy,  if  we  had  the  conditions  of 
America  in  our  midst." 

''Would  you?"  said  his  niece,  with  open  eyes.  "Yes, 
indeed,"  she  added  reflectively,  "  I  often  heard  mother 
say  that  father  was  burning  himself  out  with  brain-work 
and  anxiety.  She  said  it  was  his  Irish  temperament. 
But  I  always  heard.  Uncle,  that  the  Irish  were  so  lazy 
at  home." 

"So  they  are!  so  they  are!"  he  said  grimly.  "Thanks 
be  to  God  for  that.  If  they  ever  become  active,  you 
may  be  sure  it  is  always  on  the  side  of  mischief.  If  the 
Lord  shall  ever  divert  the  Gulf  Stream  from  our  coasts, 
we  shall  have  the  prettiest  lunatic  asylum  in  the  world; 
and  you  know,  the  world  itself  is  the  lunatic  ward  of  the 
universe." 

"Well,  now,"  said  Annie  thoughtfully,  "that  does 
surprise  me." 

And  the  surprise  was  so  overwhelming  that  she  forgot 
her  narrative,  until  her  uncle  recalled  her  to  it. 

"But  what  did  you  learn?  what  were  your  studies? 
I  see  you  have  learned  cooking,  although  my  curate 
has  a  bad  headache  this  morning  —  " 

"Oh,  now,  Uncle,  that's  cruel;  wait  till  I  see  Father 
Liston.     I'm   sure   he'll   admit   that  —  well,   I    mustn't 


HIS  SISTER'S  STORY  121 

boast.     I  believe  it  is  thought  here  that  we  Americans 
never  cease  boasting." 

"  So  it  is,"  he  said.  "  Everything  is  almighty  in  Amer- 
ica —  from  the  almighty  Niagara  to  the  almighty  Mis- 
sissippi; to  say  nothing  of  the  almighty  dollar." 

"Well,  now,"  said  the  girl  musing,  "that  is  strange. 
You  see  one  must  travel  to  see  things  rightly  at  home." 

"Quite  so,"  he  said,  with  his  usual  sarcasm,  "and  that 
is  why  I  am  giving  you  the  opportunity  first,  of  boast- 
ing of  your  accomplishments  (that's  the  word,  I  believe), 
and  then  —  " 

"  Uncle,  you're  really  unkind.  Why,  I  always  thought 
old  priests  were  gentle  and  compassionate." 

"And  young  priests?"  he  said. 

"Well,  you  know,  young  priests  have  not  seen  things; 
and  you  make  allowances  for  them." 

"That  is  good.  I  must  tell  Father  Liston  how  com- 
passionate you  are.  But,  there,  we  are  getting  no  nearer 
the  question,  what  have  you  learned,  besides  promoting 
dyspepsia?" 

"Well,  a  little  music,  some  Euclid  and  Algebra  —  " 

"  Good ! "  said  her  uncle. 

"  Some  knowledge  of  Italian  —  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"English  Literature  and  Composition;  needlework — " 

"Can  you  knit  stockings?"  he  broke  in. 

"N — no,"  she  said.  "But  I  can  make  lovely  things 
in  silk.  Look,  Uncle,  I  noticed  yesterday  that  your 
vestments  were  rather  worn  here  in  front  —  would  you 
let  me  mend  them?  And  the  altar-cloth  was  very  poor. 
I  shall  work  an  I  H  S  on  the  front,  if  you  will  allow  me. 
And  do  you  know  —  of  course  you  don't  —  men  never 
see  things  —  the  finger-towels  looked  dirty.  If  you  have 
no  objection,  I'll  overhaul  the  whole  place  soon  —  " 

"Hm!"  said_  her  uncle,  beginning  to  see  dimly  how  the 
tables  were  being  turned  against  him,  "very  good!  we'll 
see  about  it.  Of  course,  you  young  ladies  are  like  un- 
fledged curates  —  everything  is  wrong,  and  you  are  the 


122  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

celestial  and  heavenly-appointed  messengers  to  make 
everything  right.  Well,  we'll  see!  Meanwhile,  what  I 
want  to  know  is  this:  Did  you  ever  learn  Latin?" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes!"  she  said.  "I  can  read  the  Commen- 
taries of  Caesar  and  the  first  five  books  of  Virgil." 

"What?"  he  cried.     "Are  you  serious,  Annie?" 

"Quite,"  she  said,  simply. 

"I  don't  believe  one  word  of  it,"  he  said.  "This  is 
American  boasting,  with  a  vengeance." 

"Well,  you  can  try  me,"  she  said.  "Have  you  the 
books  in  the  house?" 

"I  think  so,"  he  said,  reluctantly,  rising  up  and  going 
to  his  bookcase.  He  took  down  an  old  Dolphin  edition 
of  Virgil,  and  after  dusting  it,  he  handed  it  to  his  niece. 
She  took  the  ugly  volume  in  her  hands  gingerly,  and  then 
laid  it  on  the  table,  as  if  it  were  infected.  He  saw  the 
gesture. 

"  You  don't  like  Virgil?  "  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

"I  don't  like  dirt,"  she  replied. 

"  Oh,  a  little  dust  doesn't  matter,"  he  replied.  "  Open 
anywhere,  and  read." 

She  took  up  a  paper-knife,  and  carefully  opened  up 
the  pages.  They  were  water-stained  and  brown  from 
age;  and  the  type  was  archaic.     She  read  on,  and  stopped. 

"  What  a  funny  old  book,"  she  said.  "The  ess's  are  all 
effs;  and  there  appears  to  be  no  regard  for  punctuation  — " 

"No  matter,"  he  interrupted,  "read  on!" 

She  read  slowly,  but  perfectly,  without  one  false  quan- 
tity; and  to  his  astonishment,  she  read  as  if  she  followed 
the  meaning,  with  emphasis,  and  also  bringing  out  the 
beautiful  colour-sounds  of  the  great  Mantuan. 

"That  will  do!"  he  said.  "But  why  do  you  say,  viri 
and  not  'viree';  citi,  and  not  'ceetee'?" 

Then  his  niece  laughed  irreverently.  "Ceetee,"  she 
said,  "Ceetee"  —  There's  no  such  word  here.  'Solvite 
vela  citi'  —  that's  v^hat  Virgil  says." 

"Very  good,"  he  replied,  almost  blushing  under  the 
correction.     "Translate  now." 


HIS  SISTER'S  STORY  123 

And  Annie  did,  fluently  and  in  excellent  English,  with- 
out enervating  the  Latin  expression. 

Then  he  demanded  the  meaning  and  construction  of 
the  sentences,  the  tenses  and  conjugations  of  verbs,  all 
of  which  the  girl  answered  without  flinching,  and  even 
with  ease. 

"Put  down  that  book,"  he  said  at  length.  "Your 
teachers  are  to  be  congratulated.  This  is  solid  education, 
and,  Annie,"  he  said,  and  paused  for  awhile,  "God  sent 
you  to  me!" 

The  young  girl  was  filled  with  emotion  at  the  words, 
they  sounded  so  strange  after  his  brusqueness  and  sar- 
casm. 

"Yes!"  he  repeated.  "God  sent  you  to  me.  But 
before  I  explain,  one  question  more.  You  haven't  told 
me  how  you  were  circumstanced  after  your  father's 
death,  and  how  your  mother  died." 

He  leaned  his  head  on  one  hand,  and  put  up  his  hand- 
kerchief to  hide  his  face. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  "we  were  not  too  well  off,  I  believe. 
You  know,  father  had  not  much  time  to  put  by  capital 
—  that's  the  word,  I  believe,  —  and  once  I  heard  him 
anxiously  speaking  to  mother  about  railways.  How- 
ever, when  he  died,  we  had  to  sell  our  house  and  furniture, 
and  live  in  a  flat.  Then  I  went  back  to  school;  I  spent 
a  few  vacations  with  companions.  Once  I  returned 
home  to  find  mother  looking  very  ill  and  worn.  Then 
I  was  suddenly  summoned  to  her  bedside  in  Chicago." 

Here  the  girl  stopped.  The  priest  drew  his  handker- 
chief closer  around  his  face. 

"  It  was  in  a  public  hospital,"  the  girl  went  on,  although 
her  voice  was  breaking  into  little  sobs,  "and  mother 
had  —  not  even  —  a  private  room.  She  could  not  afford 
it,  I  believe.  She  suffered  much  —  'twas  tuberculosis  in 
the  throat  —  I  believe  —  and  that  is  bad  and  —  danger- 
ous. When  I  saw  her  —  her  face  was  sunken  and  blue ; 
and  when  —  she  turned  around  —  and  rested  her  eyes 
on  me  —  I  thought  I  should  go  mad  —  with  grief." 


124  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

She  stopped  again,  partly  with  emotion,  and  partly 
in  great  wonder  at  the  silence  of  the  man,  whose  face 
was  turned  away  from  her.     His  silence  made  her  go  on. 

"  I  wasn't  allowed  to  remain  —  they  said  the  place 
was  dangerous  —  nor  even  to  kiss  dear  mother.  Father 
Falvey  dragged  me  away,  and  took  me  to  a  convent, 
where  I  remained,  till  all  was  over,  and  I  was  sent  here." 

Her  uncle's  face  was  still  averted  from  her;  and  he 
listened  in  silence,  but  God  alone  knew  with  what  emo- 
tion he  listened  to  the  narrative  of  the  sad  life  ending 
in  the  lonely  death  of  that  sister  from  whom  he  had 
parted  in  anger  so  many  years  ago.  The  sorrow  of  the 
thing  overwhelmed  him;  and  he  now  felt  grateful  to  the 
good  priest  who  had  sent  him  this  young  girl,  to  whom 
he  could  make  reparation  for  any  undue  harshness  or 
injustice  he  might  have  done  to  her  mother.  And  then 
he  started  at  the  thought  of  how  near  he  had  been  to 
the  mistake,  or  crime,  of  repudiating  this  one  great  chance 
of  reparation. 

"  You  heard  me  say,"  he  replied  at  length,  removing 
the  handkerchief  from  his  face,  "that  I  thanked  God 
you  had  come  hither.  There  are  many  reasons  for  it; 
but  I  may  mention  one  now.  I  notice  my  sight  is  grow- 
ing dim;  and  perhaps,  after  some  years,  I  may  not  be 
able  to  read  with  any  pleasure.  Now,  all  my  reading  is 
in  Latin  —  in  fact,  it  is  theology;  and  I  have  a  hope  that 
you  may  be  able  to  read  for  me,  after  many  years  — 
after  many  years,  if  I  should  become  —  "  he  dared  not 
say  "blind,"  —  "unable  to  read  myself." 

"But,  Uncle,  how  could  I  read  theological  words?  I 
guess  they  are  quite  different  from  Virgil  —  " 

"  Not  so  much  as  you  think,"  he  said.  "  I  see  that  you 
have  acquired  a  wonderful  knowledge  of  Latin  for  a  girl 
— wonderful !  I  never  thought  that  nuns  could  teach  Latin 
and  Greek  —  do  you  know  any  Greek?" 

"Not  much!"  she  replied.  "Only  the  Gospel  of  St. 
John!" 

"Only  the  Gospel  of  St.  John!"  he  echoed.     "It  is 


HIS  SISTER'S  STORY  125 

astonishing!  I  won't  doubt  your  word  again,  by  putting 
you  to  the  test.  But  you  have  no  idea  what  a  pleasure  it  is 
to  have  some  one  near  me  who  can  understand  such  things." 

"  I'm  sure  if  I  can  help  you,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "  I  shall 
be  very  happy.     And  it  will  keep  up  my  own  knowledge." 

"Quite  so!"  he  said.  "And  you  never  know  when 
you  may  require  it.  Knowledge  is  always  useful.  But 
you  must  keep  up  your  studies.  You  must  join  my 
evening-class  now!" 

"Evening-class?"  she  cried-  "Why,  Uncle,  do  you 
keep  school?" 

"Yes!"  he  said  smiling.  "At  least,  I  have  had  for 
some  time  two  young  scholars,  whom  I  am  preparing  for 
matriculation  in  the  Queen's  College,  Cork." 

"Then  they  are  young  gentlemen?"  she  asked  in  a 
tone  of  alarm, 

"Yes!"  he  replied.  "Two  young  Wycherlys,  sons  of 
a  benevolent  doctor,  who  is  very  kind  to  the  poor  here; 
and  to  whom  I  owe  a  little  return." 

She  was  silent.  She  did  not  expect  this;  and  she 
didn't  like  it.     But  he  wished  to  be  candid. 

"Furthermore,"  he  said,  "they  are  Protestants;  and 
I  want  to  show  my  own  people  here,  that  if  they  choose 
to  annoy  me,  I  can  equally  show  how  little  I  care  for 
them,  and  how  much  I  can  appreciate  the  honesty  and 
manliness  of  Protestants." 

His  voice  had  so  suddenly  taken  on  a  ring  of  defiance  and 
battle,  that  the  girl  was  struck  silent.  Strange  things  wore 
being  revealed  to  her  during  these  two  days  of  her  Irish  life, 
—  strange,  portentous  things,  which  were  quite  the  reverse 
of  all  she  had  heard  from  her  mother  about  Ireland. 
Here,  where  she  had  dreamed,  even  in  her  young  soul,  of 
nothing  but  peace  and  holiness  and  reverence  and  tender- 
ness, behold  there  are  tumult  and  anger,  and  the  sadness 
that  comes  from  mistrust  and  suspicion,  raised  by  hot  pas- 
sion to  the  intensity  of  mutual  hate.  She  had  yet  to  learn 
that  behind  all  this  were  to  be  found  perfect  faith,  and  even 
the  "Love  that  casts  out  Fear." 


CHAPTER  XIII 


Unexpected  Visits 


When  Kerins  and  his  protectors  woke  on  St.  Stephen's 
morning,  they  soon  reahzed  that  they  had  been  visited 
the  previous  night  with  sad  results.  Kerins  was  savage 
with  them;  and  they  with  Kerins.  The  whole  trio  were 
very  wroth  with  the  one  thing  amongst  them  which  had 
been  decent  —  the  dog,  Snap. 

"What  could  have  that  —  dog  been  doing?"  said  one 
of  the  men.  ''He's  savage  enough,  sometimes.  Come 
here,  you  brute!  What  came  over  you  last  night,  that 
you  allowed  a  midnight  thief  to  come  in  and  steal  and 
rob  everything  before  him?     Come  here!" 

And  the  great  patient  animal  came  over  in  his  own 
slow,  dignified  way,  and  looked  up  in  the  face  of  his 
interrogator. 

"Do  you  hear  me?"  said  the  fellow.  "You  are  fed 
and  housed  to  protect  us.  You  weren't  drunk.  We 
were,  as  we  had  a  perfect  right  to  be;  and  we  depended 
on  you,  you  lazy  brute.  You  can  bark  and  bite  at  sheep 
and  lambs.     What  were  you  doing?" 

And  Snap  put  his  nose  in  the  air,  and  emitted  a  low, 
long,  melancholy  howl.     It  meant  clearly: 

"True.  I'm  an  unfaithful  dog.  I  saw  the  evil  thing 
done;  and  the  evil  man  who  did  it.  I  saw  him  sneak  in, 
and  prowl  around,  and  search  your  pockets,  and  take 
your  revolvers.  And  I  was  silent.  He  said  'Snap! 
Snap!  Good  old  dog!'  and  I  couldn't  bite  him.  Besides, 
what  am  I,  but  a  poor  dog;  and  how  can  I,  with  my 
canine  intelligence,  understand  the  ways  of  you  great 
and  god-like  beings?    That  man,  that  thief,  was  a  friend 

126 


UNEXPECTED   VISITS  127 

of  yours.  He  came  in  here;  and  eat  your  bread  and  salt. 
I  saw  him  smoking  and  drinking  with  you  there  by  the 
fire.  How  am  I  to  distinguish  a  friend  from  an  enemy? 
And  how  was  I,  a  poor  dog,  to  know  whether  it  was  a 
friend  that  was  borrowing  your  money  and  your  weapons, 
or  a  thief  that  was  steahng  them?" 

But  this  howl  of  argument,  this  canine  apology,  was 
not  accepted  by  the  superior  being,  who  kicked  the  poor 
brute  into  a  corner,  and  left  him,  sore  and  whimpering 
there. 

"Let  Snap  alone,"  said  Kerins,  angrily.  "He's  not 
your  dog.  He's  mine.  And  it  was  not  his  fault.  'Twas 
your  own.  How  often  have  you  been  warned  to  keep 
yourselves  right  in  these  dangerous  times,  and  with  such 
dangerous  neighbours?" 

"  Well,  master,"  said  the  fellow.  "  I  guess  you  are  as 
much  to  blame  as  us,  though  you  were  cute  enough  to 
keep  yourself  all  right.  But  it  seems  quare  that  Snap, 
who  will  bite  a  hot  iron  when  he's  roused,  never  gave 
tongue  last  night." 

"  You  were  too  dead  drunk  to  hear  him,"  said  Kerins. 
"When  I  came  home  at  midnight,  all  the  artillery  of 
England  couldn't  wake  ye." 

"Then  you  went  out  and  left  us  here  unprotected?" 
said  the  fellow. 

"Yes!  I  ran  down  to  the  old  castle  for  an  hour," 
said  Kerins,  "an'  whin  I  came  back,  there  ye  were,  as 
dead  drunk  as  logs,  and  Snap  between  you." 

"  Well,  there's  no  good  wastin'  words  over  it  now," 
said  his  protector.  "  It  was  a  frind,^'  he  laid  much  stress 
on  the  word,  "not  an  inimy,  that  cleaned  our  pockets, 
and  took  our  barkers.  But  we'll  find  him  out.  By  G— 
we  will;  and  thin  it  will  be  a  bad  night's  work  for  him." 
The  fellow  was  savage  from  his  losses;  and  still  more 
from  the  insult  offered.  These  men  terrorized  the  coun- 
try, and  to  look  crossly  at  them  was  a  legal  offence.  And 
now,  some  rascal  had  the  courage,  the  absolute  courage, 
to  steal  into  a  prohibited  place,  defy  the  law  of  the  land, 


128  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

and  actually  lay  sacrilegious  hands  of  theft  on  its  lawful 
representatives  and  defenders.  It  was  too  bad.  And 
they  were  determined  to  resent  and  revenge  it. 

Hence,  a  few  days  afterwards,  as  old  Mrs.  Duggan  was 
throwing  out  some  refuse  into  the  fragrant  pit  before 
the  door,  she  was  startled  at  seeing  the  local  sergeant 
of  police  and  a  constable  entering  the  yard.  They  came 
slowly  along;  and  then  courteously  knocked  on  the  half- 
door.  Being  bidden  to  enter,  they  politely  showed  a 
warrant  for  the  search  of  the  premises. 

"  Yerra,"  said  the  old  woman,  "  an'  what  are  ye  search- 
in'  fur?" 

"  Well,  that's  our  business,  ma'am,"  said  the  constable, 
"which  we'll  tell  you  if  we  finds  anythin'." 

The  men  were  out;  and  only  the  old  woman  and  her 
daughter  were  present;  but  the  two  officers  were  very 
gentle  and  respectful;  and,  although  they  made  a  thorough 
search,  and  overhauled  everything  in  the  place,  they 
discovered  nothing  but  an  old,  disused  gun,  which, 
although  it  was  held  without  a  license,  was  so  utterly 
worthless  that  they  disdained  to  take  it  away  with  them. 

"  Now,  I  can  tell  you  what  we  came  for,"  said  the  man. 
"There  was  a  robbery  committed  next  door  on  Christ- 
mas Night  —  a  double  robbery  of  money  and  arms ;  and 
suspicion  naturally  fell  upon  your  house,  as  your  people 
are  at  variance  with  Kerins." 

"  Well,  thin,"  said  the  old  woman,  flaring  up  in  defence 
of  the  honour  of  her  household,  "whoever  sot  ye  upon  us 
knew  nothin'  of  us  an'  ours.  'Tis  thrue  that  we  have  a 
variance  with  this  Yankee  man;  but  none  of  our  seed, 
breed,  or  generation  wor  ever  guilty  of  robbing  and 
stalin'.  I  expect  'twas  thim  blagards  theirselves,  when 
in  their  dhrink,  lost  their  money  and  their  guns;  for, 
begor,  they're  never  sober,  night  or  day;  an'  whin  they're 
dhrunk,  faix  we're  afraid  to  go  outside  the  dure,  for  fear 
we'd  have  the  heads  blown  aff  of  us." 

"Well,"  said  the  sergeant,  "at  least,  we  can  say  we 
have  found  nothing  to  incriminate  any  of  your  family. 


UNEXPECTED  VISITS  129 

But,  as  a  friend,  I'd  advise  the  boys  to  be  careful  of  them- 
selves. They're  saying  things,  that,  if  anything  happens, 
will  tell  with  a  jury,  against  them." 

"Thank  you  kindly,"  said  the  old  woman,  gratefully. 
"But  I'm  afeard  we'll  never  know  pace  agin  here." 

The  same  afternoon  (it  was  early  in  the  New  Year), 
one  of  the  leading  members  oi  the  Defence  Union,  whose 
representatives  were  lodged  with  Kerins  for  his  defence, 
called  on  the  parish  priest.  It  was  the  first  time  a  land- 
lord had  ever  crossed  the  threshold  of  nis  door;  for, 
although  he  was  known  to  be  a  strenuous  and  bigoted 
supporter  of  law,  whether  civil  or  ecclesiastical,  and  knew 
no  cause  for  dispensation,  and  no  excuse  for  revolt, 
meeting  every  objection  with  the  iron  formula:  It  is  the 
Law!  nevertheless  it  was  also  known  that  he  was,  in 
every  sense,  the  father  of  his  people,  and  their  stern 
defender  against  oppression  of  any  kind.  It  is  a  position 
which,  in  Ireland,  is  scarcely  understood  by  those  who 
have  landed  interests  in  the  countiy,  or  even  by  the 
people  themselves.  If  a  priest  utters  a  word  in  defence 
of  his  people,  he  is  at  once  reputed  an  agitator  and  rev- 
olutionary; if  he  opposes  the  popular  will  from  reasons 
of  conscience,  he  is  set  down  by  the  people  as  a  friend 
of  their  oppressors,  and  by  the  governing  classes  of  the 
country  as  a  conservative  ally.  The  character  of  Dr. 
William  Gray  seems  unintelligible  —  a  protector  of  his 
people  and  keenly  alive  to  their  interests,  yet  a  strenu- 
ous supporter  of  law,  and  an  equally  strenuous  opponent 
of  lawlessness.  And  yet,  this  is  what  he  was  during  life, 
and  consistently  to  the  end. 

He  treated  his  visitor  with  all  the  courtesy  due  to  his 
rank,  bade  him  be  seated,  and  waited.  The  latter,  with 
some  embarrassment,  made  apologies  for  his  intrusion, 
spoke  on  a  few  indifferent  topics,  and  then  came  to  the 
object  of  his  unusual  visit.  He  was  somewhat  awed  by 
the  appearance  of  this  grave  man,  who,  silent  and  motion- 
less as  a  "tatue,  gazed  steadily  through  the  window,  a 
look  of  stern  expectation  in  his  great  gray  eyes. 
10 


130  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  do  not  know  if  you  consider  my  visit  inopportune 
or  unexpected/'  he  said  at  length,  "but  I  came  to  say, 
on  behalf  of  myself  and  my  colleagues,  how  grateful  we 
have  reason  to  be  to  you  for  the  stand  you  have  taken 
against  disorder  and  lawlessness  in  your  parish." 

There  was  an  awkward  pause,  his  listener  remaining 
still  motionless  staring  through  the  window. 

The  gentleman  continued: 

"It  seems  to  us,  that  if  all  the  ministers  of  religion 
in  the  country  had  adopted  the  same  attitude,  things 
would  not  have  come  to  the  present  pass." 

"That  is,"  said  his  host,  "things  would  have  remained 
as  they  were?" 

"Well,  I  mean,"  said  the  other,  "that  whilst  the  rela- 
tions of  the  people  toward  the  governing  authorities 
might  have  been  improved  by  slow  and  constitutional 
methods,  we  would  not  have  been  plunged  into  a  violent 
revolution." 

"  I  am  quite  with  you  there,"  said  Dr.  Gray,  now  lean- 
ing back  in  his  chair,  and  spreading  out  his  handker- 
chief, and  taking  up  his  snuff-box;  "but  would  you  inform 
me,  what  slow  and  constitutional  methods  were  being 
taken  by  the  landlord  class,  or  by  the  government,  to 
better  the  awful  condition  of  our  poor  people?" 

"Well,  I  thought,"  said  the  other,  somewhat  embar- 
rassed, "that  things  were  improving;  large  reductions 
in  rent  were  being  given;  and  the  country  appeared  to 
be  prospering,  until  the  agitator  and  the  professional 
politician  came  on  the  stage." 

"I  want  to  make  a  small  diversion  from  this  pleasant 
subject,"  said  Dr.  Gray.  "Would  you  mind  telling  me 
where  you  graduated;  for  I  think  you  have  had  a  uni- 
versity training." 

"  In  Cambridge,"  he  replied.  "I  am  an  M.  A.  of  Cam- 
bridge." 

"  That  clears  matters  a  little,"  said  Dr.  Gray.  "  I  was 
afraid  you  had  never  been  outside  of  Ireland,  like  so 
many  of  the  gentry  of  the  country,  and  argument  there 


UNEXPECTED  VISITS  131 

is  hopeless.  Now,  would  you  mind  telling  me,  what 
country,  and  what  age,  was  ever  free  from  agitators  and 
professional  politicians?" 

Then  he  added,  holding  up  his  fingers: 

"Utopia!" 

'"Tis  true,"  said  the  other,  reflectively.  "But  there 
is  something  especially  rabid  and  smister  about  Irish 
agitation." 

"That's  because  you  are  personally  concerned,"  said 
Dr.  Gray.  "So  far  as  my  limited  reading  goes,  this 
land  revolution  in  Ireland  has  been  effected  with  infi- 
nitely less  violence  than  any  revolution  in  history." 

"You  really  surprise  me,  Dr.  Gray,"  said  the  land- 
lord. "I  have  been  under  the  impression  that  it  has 
been  the  most  truculent  and  unjust  agitation  ever  re- 
corded." 

"Then  I'm  sorry  to  say  that  you  have  read  history 
to  little  effect,"  said  Dr.  Gray.  "  You,  the  gentry  and 
nobility  of  Ireland,  have  been  in  exactly  the  same  posi- 
tion toward  the  people  as  the  aristocracy  of  France 
during  the  reigns  of  Louis  XIV  and  Louis  XV,  with  this 
difference,  that  the  oppression  of  the  people,  the  grind- 
ing-out  of  all  the  best  elements  of  human  life,  and  the 
absorption  of  these  elements  by  one  class,  selfish  and 
unprincipled,  lasted  for  the  space  of  two  reigns  in 
France;  in  Ireland,  it  has  lasted  for  centuries." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  other.  "But  was  not  your 
Church  on  the  side  of  the  Government  then  —  and  on 
the  side  of  'law  and  order'?" 

"  Yes ! "  said  the  other  bitterly,  his  stem  face  assuming 
a  sterner  aspect.  "And  so  much  the  worse  for  our 
Church!  It  forgot  its  place  as  the  protector  of  the  poor; 
and  it  has  suffered  a  fearful  retribution  to  this  day!" 

He  was  silent  for  a  while  with  emotion ;  because  it  was 
one  of  the  subjects  on  which  he  felt  deeply.  But  recol- 
lecting himself,  he  said: 

"You  remember  what  a  revenge  the  French  took!" 

The  other  nodded. 


132  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Compared  to  the  Irish,  it  was  the  revenge  of  wolves 
to  the  harmless  bleatings  of  sheep," 

"They  have  beggared  us!"  said  the  landlord,  gloomily. 

"It  is  not  they,"  said  the  priest,  "it  is  the  economics 
of  the  age  that  have  reduced  your  income.  The  steam- 
ship and  the  telegraph  have  beggared  you.  You  have 
no  more  reason  to  complain  than  if  you  lost  your  money 
from  a  fall  in  stocks,  or  any  other  daily  change  in  the 
money-market . ' ' 

"Well,"  said  the  landlord,  rising,  "Whatever  be  the 
value  of  your  arguments,  there  is  one  consequence,  which, 
as  an  Irishman,  and  I  am  an  Irishman,  I  deplore.  I  used 
to  hear  my  father  talk  of  his  people,  how  loyal,  how 
honourable,  how  scrupulously  exact  they  were  in  matters 
of  honesty.  I  am  afraid  that,  too,  has  changed,  I  am 
afraid  that  fine  sense  of  honour  has  been  expelled  from 
the  hearts  of  the  people;  and  that,  having  succeeded  in 
political  dishonesty,  they  are  now  becoming  personally 
dishonest  in  their  dealings." 

The  face  of  the  priest  flushed  with  anger;  but,  in  a 
moment,  the  terrible  truth  flashed  in  upon  him.  Could 
he  contradict  this  man?    The  latter  went  on: 

"In  fact,  sir,  what  has  brought  me  here  to-day  is,  to 
take  cognizance  of  an  act  of  vulgar  robbery  committed 
here  on  Christmas  Night." 

"What?"  said  the  priest.     "I  have  not  heard  of  it." 

"Probably  not,"  said  the  other.     "But  it  occurred." 

"  Sit  down,"  said  the  priest  gloomily.  "  Yes,  things 
are  looking  bad  there." 

"On  Christmas  Night,"  repeated  the  landlord,  "some 
fellow,  or  fellows,  broke  into  Kerins's  house,  in  his  absence, 
stole  my  men's  revolvers,  and  then  —  their  watches;  and 
then  —  their  money." 

It  was  bad  news;  but  a  thought  occurred  to  the  priest. 

"  Could  your  men  be  making  a  case?  "  he  asked.  "  For 
you  know  that  is  quite  possible." 

"I  cannot  say  that  I  like  the  insinuation,  sir!"  he  said, 
feeling  that  to  have  a  grievance  is  to  stand  on  firm  ground. 


UNEXPECTED    VISITS  133 

"  But,  allowing  it  to  be  possible,  do  you  think  these  men 
would  like  to  go  unarmed  in  the  midst  of  a  hostile  popu- 
lation; and  be  supplied  with  new  revolvers  at  their  own 
expense?" 

"No!"  said  Dr.  Gray,  "I  am  sure  they  wouldn't  like 
to  be  compelled  to  pay  anything,  from  all  that  I  have 
heard.     But,  whom  do  you  suspect?" 

"Naturally,  suspicion  falls  in  one  quarter,"  said  the 
landlord.  "  We  have  obtained  a  search-warrant  for  the 
Duggans;  and  I'm  sure  that  they  are  the  robbers." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken,"  replied  the  priest.  "The 
Duggans  are  a  rough,  passionate  lot;  but  I  doubt  if  any 
of  them  would  descend  so  low  as  to  steal." 

"Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  the  other,  "I  must  now 
bid  you  Good-day!  and  allow  me  to  thank  you  for  your 
courtesy  in  according  me  this  interesting  interview,  and 
also  for  your  firmness  in  dealing  with  disorder  in  your 
parish,  though  you  may  deprecate  it." 

And  then  he  added,  in  an  undertone,  as  if  speaking 
to  himself: 

"What  a  pity  we  cannot  understand  each  other 
better!" 

"  Yes!"  said  the  priest.  " 'Tis  a  pity!  And  when  men 
like  you,  cultivated  and  well  read,  and  with  all  the  ad- 
vantages of  a  university  education,  fail  to  understand  us, 
Where's  the  hope?" 

He  had  led  his  visitor  to  the  door.  The  latter  paused 
there  for  a  moment.  He  was  thinking,  in  a  half-con- 
scious manner,  of  how  pleasant  it  would  be,  if  he  could 
repeat  that  visit,  and  see  more  of  this  man,  whose  cour- 
age and  intelligence  seemed  to  fascinate  him.  Every 
emotion  seemed  to  press  toward  a  renewal  and  continuance 
of  such  happy  relations.  But,  education,  prejudice, 
human  respect,  dread  of  criticism,  rose  up  at  once,  and 
said:  "Nay!  this  must  not  be!  The  thing  is  quite  im- 
possible!" 

He  hastily  said.  Good-bye!  and  strode  along  the 
gravelled  walk  toward  the  gate. 


134  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Something  similar,  too,  was  agitating  the  sensitive 
and  emotional  nature  of  the  priest. 

"What  a  pity,"  he  thought,  "that  we  can  never  under- 
stand each  other!  Now,  here's  a  man  who  thinks  on  a 
hundred  subjects  even  as  I.  We  could  meet,  and  discuss 
the  classics,  science,  human  history,  even  theology;  and 
it  would  be  a  mutual  pleasure.  Again,  he  thinks  as  I 
do  on  the  subject  of  Law,  —  great  and  mighty  conserv- 
ator of  the  Universe  and  of  men,  —  and  we  might 
co-operate  and  ally  our  forces  on  the  side  of  righteous- 
ness and  morality.  And  yet  'tis  impossible  —  as  impos- 
sible as  to  transfer  yonder  ocean  to  yonder  hills,  or  bring 
down  her  satellite  to  the  earth." 

And  then  the  subject  struck  him  of  the  odious  charge 
he  had  brought  against  the  people  of  the  parish.  Could 
it  be  true?  Had  the  people  gone  down  so  low  as  to  have 
become  mere  vulgar  thieves  and  pickpockets?  He  saw 
clearly  the  terrific  change  that  was  coming  over  the  people 
—  the  people,  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  every  Irish  priest. 
He  saw  the  old  spirit  of  loyalty  to  each  other  disappear; 
and  a  new  hateful  spirit  of  distrust  and  suspicion  arising. 
He  saw  how  the  "  ould  dacency  "  was  gone  —  that  manly, 
honourable  feeling  that  existed  beforetimes  in  the  hearts 
of  the  people,  and  would  make  them  rather  suffer  death 
than  dishonour.  He  knew  that  men  now  shirked  their 
lawful  obligations,  and  defied  shopkeepers  to  attempt  to 
recover  their  debts  by  decrees.  In  a  word,  the  terrible 
truth  came  back,  enunciated  by  this  landlord,  that 
having  succeeded  in  their  political  struggles,  they  had 
lost,  or  were  losing,  the  sense  of  personal  obligations; 
and  he  groaned  in  spirit.  He  knew  well  that  the  canker 
of  modern  greed  had  eaten  into  the  hearts  of  the  people; 
and  that  the  soul  was  nearly  dead.  And  yet  —  thieves, 
midnight  thieves,  pickpockets?  No!  he  refused  to  be- 
lieve that. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


A  Great  —  Artist 


Notwithstanding  his  sarcastic  remarks  on  Henry 
Listen's  projected  improvements,  tiie  good  pastor  was 
determined  to  make  his  young  curate  happy;  and,  as 
one  of  the  elements  of  happiness  is  a  comfortable  house, 
he  deputed  a  certain  contractor  in  the  neighbouring  town 
of  M —  to  send  up  painters  and  paper-hangers  to  the 
curate's  house  at  Athboy,  with  definite  instructions, 
however,  that  things  should  be  done  on  a  more  modest 
scale  than  the  ambition  of  his  young  confrere  desired. 
And  as  the  contractor  just  then  was  short  of  hands,  he 
was  obliged  to  send  a  combination  of  painter  and  paper- 
hanger  in  one  person,  named  Delaney,  or  rather  Delane. 
This  person,  however,  was  quite  equal,  both  in  dignity 
and  efficiency,  to  the  double  role.  He  had  been  in  Lon- 
don, serving  his  time  to  some  master-painter,  and  he  had 
had  marvellous  experiences  which  seemed  to  change  and 
develop  according  to  the  nature  of  the  place  in  which  he 
happened  to  be  at  work.  He  had  an  impressive  manner, 
rather  supercilious,  until  he  brought  his  subjects  to  his 
feet,  when  he  relaxed  a  little;  and  he  had  a  face  that 
would  not  be  considered  remarkable  in  Italy,  but  which 
should  have  made  his  fortune  anywhere  outside  that 
favoured  land. 

It  was  a  handsome  face  —  the  real,  artist  face,  inher- 
ited from  his  Irish  mother;  but,  from  one  cause  or  another, 
the  pale  cheeks  looked  a  little  puffed,  and  slightly  pitted; 
and  the  thick,  black  hair,  that  fell  artist-like  on  his  neck, 
was  streaked  with  premature  gray. 

But  his  was  an  impressive  and  attractive  face;  and 

135 


136  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

when,  the  first  morning  of  his  arrival,  he  made  the  house 
resound  to  some  choice  pieces  from  La  Traviata  and 
Sonnambula,  the  little  servant,  Katie,  whom  Henry 
Liston  had  brought  hither  from  his  native  town,  was 
prepared,  like  the  Count  in  the  song,  "  her  heart  and  her 
fortune  [that  is,  the  entire  contents  of  her  master's 
larder]  to  lay  at  his  feet."  There  were  some  reasons, 
however,  why  he  was  able  to  resist  the  dual  temptation. 
It  appears,  as  he  afterwards  in  confidence  told  the  young 
priest,  that  he  was  a  blighted  being,  that  he  had  already 
had  an  affair  of  the  heart,  which  had  brought  the  silver 
into  his  hair;  and  (but  this  was  not  a  confidence,  only 
an  after-revelation)  he  had  a  decided  predilection  for 
liquid  over  solid  refreshments. 

This  soon  became  apparent,  although  the  young  priest 
was  anxious  to  close  his  ej'es  against  the  fact.  Because, 
as  he  read  his  Office  this  first  morning  in  the  little  parlour, 
which  he  intended  to  make  his  library  and  study,  he 
became  suddenly  aware  that  the  singing  in  the  room  at 
the  other  side  of  the  hall  had  ceased.  Yielding  to  a 
slight  feeling  of  curiosity,  he  crossed  the  hall.  The 
artist  had  vanished.  A  pile  of  paint-boxes  was  on  the 
floor,  and  a  few  brushes.  A  painter's  apron  was  flung 
over  an  arm-chair,  and  a  ladder  leaned  against  the  wall. 

Henry  Liston  pulled  the  bell,  and  Katie  appeared. 

"Where's  the  painter  gone?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know,  sir!"  she  replied.  "I  thought  he  was 
here." 

Henry  went  back  to  read  his  Office. 

About  noon,  the  artist  strolled  leisurely  in,  and  com- 
menced an  aria,  just  where  he  had  left  off  at  ten  o'clock; 
and  when  the  young  curate  entered  the  room,  he  was 
leisurely  sorting  paint-cans  and  brushes. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  half  way  through  your  work  by 
this  time,"  said  Henry,  not  without  some  trepidation, 
as  the  artist  calmly  went  on  doing  nothing.  "And  do 
you  know,  Delane,"  he  continued,  "  I  fear  you  have  been 
drinking." 


A  GREAT— ARTIST  137 

The  artist  looked  calmly  down  on  the  young  priest, 
and  said: 

"No,  sir,  not  drinking,  oh,  no!  Trying  to  get  up  an 
artificial  stimulation  of  the  blood  in  the  brain  for  this 
important  work?  well,  yes!     I  may  admit  that." 

"Do  you  mean  that  you  cannot  work  without  stimu- 
lants?" said  Henry. 

"No,  sir,"  said  the  artist.  "I  don't  mean  that.  I 
can  do  ordinary  work  in  an  ordinary  manner.  But, 
where  there  is  a  severe  mental  strain,  I  need  the  help  of 
stimulants,  —  in  a  moderate  manner,  in  a  moderate 
manner," 

"But  where's  the  severe  mental  strain  here?"  said 
the  bewildered  Henry.  "You  have  got  to  hang  some 
paper  and  paint  some  wood-work,  that's  all ! " 

The  artist  laughed  loud  and  long,  and  somewhat 
sardonically. 

"Well,  sir,"  said  he,  recovering  himself  with  an  effort, 
"  as  the  poet  says : 

Where  ignorance  is  bliss, 
'Tis  folly  to  be  wise ! 

There's  no  use  arguing  that  question.  Here  are  the 
cans;  here  is  the  oil;  here  are  the  brushes;  and  here  is 
my  palette.  Now,  here  also  is  the  exact  tint  in  which 
the  architraves  and  panels  are  to  be  painted.  Would 
you  be  pleased,  sir,  to  mix  them  for  me?  " 

"I'd  rather  not,"  said  Henry,  drawing  back.  "'Tis 
a  trade  I  haven't  learned." 

"Not  a  trade,  sir!"  said  the  artist  gravely,  and  with  a 
shghtly  offended  tone.  "Not  a  trade  —  an  Art  if  you 
please!" 

"All  right!"  said  Henry.  "But  if  it  is  an  Art,  I  pre- 
sume you  have  been  initiated  in  it,  and  that  now  it  comes 
as  easy  as  walking." 

The  artist  again  laughed  loud  and  long.  Henry  was 
slightly  disconcerted.     He  began  to  feel  his  inferiority. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  an  artist  named  Tintoretto?" 


138  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

said  the  great  man,  pouring  out  a  little  dust  on  his  palette, 
and  moistening  it. 

"Oh,  yes!"  said  Henry.     "Often!" 

"Do  you  know  why  he  was  called  Tintoretto?"  queried 
the  artist. 

"No!"  said  Henry.  "I  suppose  from  the  place  in 
which  he  was  born ! " 

"No,  sir!  but  because  of  his  marvellous  power  of  dis- 
tinguishing colour  in  all  its  beautiful  shades.  I  belong 
to  the  school  of  Tintoretto!" 

"Do  you  really?"  said  the  curate,  with  open  eyes. 

"Yes,  sir!"  he  said,  as  if  he  would  like  to  speak  mod- 
estly, but  circumstances  were  compelling  him  to  be 
boastful.  "I  have  studied  in  that  school.  Titian  for 
colour  —  crude,  raw  colour.     Raffaelle  for  design —  !" 

"Ah,  Raffaello,"  broke  in  Henry,  with  enthusiasm. 
"The  master-mind  of  all!" 

The  artist  grew  suddenly  silent  and  even  solemn.  He 
wasn't  exactly  offended.  He  only  felt  as  if  a  youngster 
had  blundered  badly;  and  he  was  called  upon,  as  a  matter 
of  conscience,  and  against  his  will,  to  whip  him. 

"I  don't  think  much  of  Raffaelle!"  he  said  sadly. 

"What?"  said  Henry  Listen.  "Raffaello  of  the  Car- 
toons —  Raffaello  of  the  Sistine  Madonna ;  Raffaello  of 
the  —  the  —  why,  next  to  Michael  Angelo,  he  is  reputed 
the  master-artist  of  the  world ! " 

"Ah!"  said  the  artist  sadly,  "there's  the  amachure 
again ! " 

And  a  deep  silence  followed,  —  the  curate  extinguished; 
the  artist  sadly  mixing  colours  on  his  palette.  Suddenly, 
an  idea  seemed  to  strike  him,  as  he  felt  there  was  no  use 
in  carrying  on  a  conversation  in  Art  with  the  "  amachure." 

"The  walls  have  not  been  prepared,  sir!"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  walls  of  the  room. 

"Prepared?"  said  Henry.     "How?  by  whom?" 

"These  walls  should  have  been  prepared  by  some 
labouring  person,"  said  the  artist.  "The  old  paper  torn 
down,  the  walls  smoothed,  etc." 


A  GREAT— ARTIST  139 

"Why,  that's  your  work!"  said  Henry  dubiously. 

"My  work?"  said  the  artist.  "My  God,  sir,"  he  con- 
tinued, "this  is  too  bad.  I  never  work  except  where  the 
place  is  prepared  by  one  of  these  labouring  persons.  Have 
you  a  labouring  person  around  the  premises?  It's  an 
awful  waste  of  time." 

And  he  looked  at  his  watch. 

In  despair,  Henry  ran  out  to  fetch  in  his  man-of-all- 
work,  Jem.     The  artist  vanished. 

Jem  came  in  reluctantly.  He  had  been  smoking 
leisurely  in  the  stables,  and  contemplating  space. 

"This  painter,"  said  the  curate,  "expects  this  place 
to  be  prepared  for  him.  We  must  pull  down  all  that 
paper  and  clean  up  the  place.  Where  is  he?  Where's 
Delane?" 

"Where  is  he?"  said  Jem,  sulkily.  "Where  is  he,  but 
where  he  always  is,  his  head  stuck  half-way  into  a  pint 
down  at  the  'Cross'?" 

"Oh,  no,  no!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "Don't  say  that! 
I  found  him  a  most  intelligent  man.  He  has  read  a 
good  deal." 

"He's  the  biggest  blaggard  in  Munster,"  said  Jem. 
"He'd  drink  the  say  dry!" 

"Well,"  said  the  curate,  taking  off  his  coat.  "Here 
goes!     As  no  one  else  will  do  it,  I  must  do  it  myself." 

And  Jem  got  ashamed  of  himself,  when  he  saw  his 
master  in  his  shirt-sleeves;  and  both  set  to,  and  had  the 
whole  place  in  fair  order  when  the  artist  returned. 

"Ha!"  said  the  latter,  carefully  scrutinizing  the  work, 
and  passing  his  hand  over  the  wall  to  find  any  roughness 
or  stubborn  shreds  of  wall-paper.  "Very  good,  very 
good,  indeed!     Very  good  for  a  labouring  person!" 

"That  question  of  labouring  persons,  sir!"  he  said, 
when  Henry  returned,  clothed  and  washed  and  in  his 
right  mind,  "is  the  question  of  the  future.  It  is  loom- 
ing up  like  a  thunder  cloud  on  the  horizon  and  some 
day  it  will  break,  and  shed  fire  and  brimstone  on  the 
land." 


140  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  I  think  if  you  commenced  here ! "  said  Henry,  pointing 
to  the  wall  near  the  fireplace. 

The  artist  shook  his  head;  took  his  brush  and  made  a 
dab  of  paint  near  the  door;  and  then  retired  to  the  window 
to  see  the  effect.     It  was  not  quite  satisfactory. 

"As  I  was  saying  to  you  about  Raffaelle,"  he  said, 
rubbing  out  the  paint,  and  shedding  some  fresh  powder 
on  his  palette,  "he  is  very  much  overrated.  Michael  is 
not  so  bad.     But  Sanzio  is  overrated." 

Here  he  made  another  dab,  retreated  to  the  window 
and  shook  his  head,  and  took  up  his  palette  again.  Henry 
sat  down  in  despair. 

"When  I  was  in  London,  the  master-painter  said  to 
me  one  day,  'Delane,'  he  said,  'you  have  no  business 
here.  You  are  an  artist,  not  a  tradesman.  I  see  it  in 
your  eye.  I  see  it  in  the  contoor  of  your  face.  Now, 
you  are  to  go  every  day  to  South  Kensington;  and  sit 
down.  You  are  to  do  nothing,  but  rest  your  weary 
brain,  and  study  the  works  of  the  masters.  Look  at 
no  inferior  picture,'  he  said.  'It  will  ruin  your  genius 
and  your  taste.  Keep  a  steady  eye  on  the  masters. 
Your  wages  will  be  paid  as  usual '  —  " 

"By  Jove!  that  was  generous!"  said  Henry  Liston, 
forgetting  himself,  and  carried  on  by  the  gracious  hum- 
bug that  was  addressing  him. 

"Well,"  said  the  artist  coolly,  "it  was,  and  it  wasn't. 
He  expected  a  reward.  He  expected  to  turn  out  the 
greatest  mind  of  the  century." 

"  'Twas  a  pity  he  was  disappointed,"  said  Henry. 

"He  was,"  said  the  artist,  "but  the  fault  was  not 
mine.     I  was  blighted  in  the  bud." 

The  "memory  of  the  past"  struck  him  silent,  and 
Henry  noticed,  with  much  sympathy,  that  he  took  out  a 
particularly  dirty  handkerchief,  and  stealthily  wiped 
away  a  tear.  It  was  too  pathetic;  and  Henry  to  relieve 
the  tension  of  sympathy  asked  him  to  continue  his  narra- 
tive.    He  sniffed  a  little,  gave  a  little  cough,  and  went  on : 

"As  I  was  saying,  sir,  I  went  every  day  to  the  Gallery; 


A  GREAT— ARTIST  141 

and,  as  I  had  been  ordered,  I  sat  down  and  studied. 
Round  about  me,  a  crowd  of  amachures,  ladies  and  gentle- 
men, were  looking,  watching,  daubing,  and  spoiling  acres 
of  canvas,  in  front  of  the  Cartoons.  I  watched,  studied, 
and  —  was  silent.  One  day,  as  I  was  about  drawing 
my  final  conclusions  about  these  Cartoons,  a  gentleman 
paused,  and  stood  by  me.  'I  notice,'  he  said,  'that  you 
have  been  here  every  day  for  some  weeks,  studying 
the  Cartoons;  and  I  also  noticed,  if  you  will  pardon  the 
observation,  that  you  have  the  artist  face  —  I  see  it 
in  your  nose,  in  your  eye,  in  the  contoor  of  your  head,  in 
the  back  of  your  poll,  in  the  short  upper  lip  that  betokens 
genius  and  high  breeding.  Now,  I  am  anxious  to  get  an 
impartial  and  honest  opinion  about  these  pictures.  There's 
no  use  in  asking  these,'  he  said,  pointing  to  the  rabble 
around,  'but  what  is  your  candid  opinion?  Fear  not. 
I  am  your  friend.'  Thus  encouraged,  I  stood  up,  and, 
after  some  deliberation,  I  said:  'I  don't  think  much  of 
them!'" 

"What?"  said  Henry  Liston.  "In  the  face  of  the 
whole  world?" 

"  In  the  face  of  the  whole  world,"  said  the  artist  calmly, 
"  and  in  the  face  of  the  stars,  and  in  the  face  of  the  firma- 
ment, and  the  waters  above  the  heavens,  and  the  waters 
beneath,  I  said:  'I  don't  think  much  of  them!'" 

"  That  was  a  bold  thing  to  say,"  replied  Henry.  "  Of 
course,  you  gave  the  gentleman  your  reasons." 

"Certainly,"  said  the  artist.  "I  never  give  an  opinion 
without  reasons.  I  said,  'You  see  those  Cartoons,  their 
colouring,  their  lights  and  shades? '  '  Yes,'  he  said.  '  Do 
you  think,'  I  said,  'that  these  are  the  tints  of  the  East, 
the  East  with  all  its  vivid  colours,  strong  whites,  burning 
reds,  etc.?'  'No!'  he  said,  'they  are  not.  These  are 
all  pale  drabs,  and  greens,  and  sickly  yellows.'  'Don't 
you  see,'  I  said,  'that  the  whole  thing  wants  Orientaliza- 
tion?'  'Yes,'  he  said.  'You're  right.'  I  had  him  now 
on  the  hip.  'Now,  look  at  those  figures,'  I  said:  'Are 
these  the  figures  of  Jewish  fishermen,  or  Roman  coal- 


142  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

heavers  or  stevedores?'  'By  Jove,  you're  right  again,' 
he  said.  I  saw  I  had  now  the  victory,  and  I  pressed  it 
home.  'Did  any  one  ever  see  a  Jew  with  these  gladia- 
torial muscles,  those  firm-set,  square  jaws,  those  curly 
pates?  Is  not  the  strength  of  the  Jew  in  his  brains,  not 
in  his  muscles?  Are  these  rough,  coarse,  muscular 
labourers  the  men  who  are  to  change  the  face  of  the  world?' 
'What  is  your  name?' he  said.  'Delane,' I  said.  'Any- 
thing to  Delane  of  The  Times?'  '  Well,'  I  said,  not  caring 
much  to  pursue  the  connexion,  'I  believe  there  is  some 
consanguinity,  but  I  prefer  to  stand  on  my  own  legs.' 
'This  is  my  card,'  he  said,  handing  me  his  card.  'Any 
time  you  call  at  my  house,  I  shall  be  happy  to  see  you.' 
He  went  away,  and  I  looked  at  the  card." 

"Well?"  said  Henry,  breathless  with  excitement. 

"  'Twas  the  card  of  the  first  financier  in  Europe,"  said 
the  artist.  "I  said  to  myself,  'Delane,  your  fortune  is 
made!'" 

"And  why  wasn't  it?"  said  Henry  Liston. 

"Why?  Oh,  why?"  echoed  the  artist  in  a  passionate 
tone.  "  Why  was  Troy  taken  and  burned  to  the  ground, 
and  old  Father  Anchises  put  to  death?  Why  did  Antony 
—  Mark  Antony  throw  up  his  kingdom?  Why  was 
Ireland  lost?" 

He  stopped  dramatically;  and  Henry  Liston  thought 
that  as  these  were  rhetorical  questions,  they  needed  no 
answer.  But,  suddenly,  the  artist  passed  into  a  paroxysm 
of  despair.  He  struck  his  forehead  violently  with  his 
left  hand,  then  covering  his  eyes  with  his  right  hand,  he 
allowed  palette  and  brushes  to  fall  rattling  to  the  ground, 
whilst  he  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  Nina,  Nina,  thou  peerless  one,  why  didst  thou 
come  between  me  and  my  Art?" 

And  flinging  off  his  apron  with  a  gesture  of  despair, 
he  rushed  violently  from  the  room. 

When  Henry  Liston  had  recovered  from  his  fright,  he 
ventured  to  look.  The  artist  was  moving  at  the  rate 
of  ten  miles  an  hour  toward  "The  Cross." 


A  GREAT— ARTIST  143 

That  evening  Henry  Liston  was  tormented  by  the 
doubt,  whether  this  artist  was  a  consummate  black- 
guard, as  Jem  declared;  or  a  genius,  but  one  of  that 
unfortunate  tribe,  who  could  never  come  to  any  good 
in  this  world,  nor  probably  in  the  next.  There  was  no 
doubt  that  he  had  a  strong  predilection  for  bottled  porter, 
and  an  equally  strong  desire  to  shirk  his  work;  but  Henry 
Liston  was  a  sympathetic  soul,  and  he  had  been  lately 
reading  a  very  pathetic  book  called  Men  of  Genius,  in 
which  all  the  tragedies  of  life  seemed  to  hang  on  the  foot- 
steps of  every  poor  fellow  who  had  the  unhappy  dower 
of  brains.  Now,  Henry  Liston  did  not  sympathize  with 
the  attitude  which  the  world  assumed  toward  men  of 
genius.  It  kicked  them  from  its  doors  when  alive,  and 
bade  them  go  down  and  get  their  sores  licked  by  the  dogs; 
but  the  moment  they  were  dead,  this  "world"  flung 
itself  into  a  paroxysm  of  remorse,  and  insisted  on  raising 
marbles  and  other  heavy  materials  to  their  deified  memory. 
It  occurred  to  Henry  that  one  kind  word  spoken  during 
life  might  be  worth  more  to  these  poor  tramps  from 
Heaven  than  a  column  of  adulation  in  the  morning 
newspapers,  when  they  lay  stark  and  stiff  in  their  shrouds; 
and  that  a  morsel  of  bread  or  a  stoup  of  wine  might  have 
been  better  bestowed  on  these  poor  mortal  waifs  when 
alive,  than  a  bust  of  bronze  in  the  market-place  when 
dead. 

Then  he  had  also  read  how  humble  people,  like  himself, 
were  handed  down  to  immortality  amongst  men,  because 
they  had  linked  arms  with  genius  even  once;  and  how 
after  ages,  with  tears  in  their  stony  eyes,  blessed  the 
memory  of  those  who  had  been  kind  to  the  immortals. 
Hence,  he  had  made  up  his  mind,  that  as  Fate  had  thrown 
him  across  the  pathway  of  genius,  no  future  generations 
should  blaspheme  him  for  coldness  or  unkindness  to  a 
gifted  child  of  the  gods.  But  work  had  to  be  done. 
The  pastor,  who  was  quite  insensible  to  such  lofty  emo- 
tions, might  come  in  at  any  moment,  and  demand  in 
a  hurtful  manner,  why  his  work  was  not  carried  forward. 


144  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

So  Henry  Listen,  who  had  been  reading  in  the  Life  of 
Sidney  Smith,  how  that  wit  and  philosopher  had  cheated 
his  horse  into  working  by  tying  a  peck  of  oats  around  his 
neck,  which  he  pursued  all  day  long  and  never  overtook, 
conceived  a  brilliant  idea  of  decoying  the  artist  into 
something  like  a  day's  decent  labour.  He  allowed  time 
for  the  experiment,  however;  and  the  following  day  he 
did  not  interfere  at  all,  but  left  the  artist  to  himself. 
He  found  that,  at  the  lowest  calculation,  the  latter  had 
visited  "The  Cross"  at  least  six  times  during  the  day; 
and  he  found  the  sum-total  of  his  day's  work  was  one 
wall  faintly  tinted. 

When  six  o'clock  struck,  and  the  artist  promptly 
obeyed  its  summons  to  rest,  Henry  accosted  him, 

"I  quite  agree,  Delane,"  he  said,  "with  what  you 
stated  yesterday  as  to  the  necessity  of  stimulating  the 
brain,  when  engaged  in  delicate  and  fancy  work;  but  I 
noticed  that  you  had  to  —  ahem,  rest  six  times  to-day, 
and  as  each  interval  occupied  half  an  hour,  there  were 
three  hours  lost  out  of  your  day's  work." 

"Lost?  No,  sir!  Not  lost,"  said  the  artist  compas- 
sionately. "The  energies  newly  granted  on  each  occa- 
sion to  the  fagged  and  weary  brain  more  than  made  up 
for  lost  time." 

"And  this  is  the  sum-total  of  to-day's  work?"  said 
Henry,  pointing  to  the  wall. 

"Quite  so,  sir!"  said  the  artist.  "I  consider  that 
that  approaches  as  near  perfection  as  it  is  possible  for 
the  human  mind  to  accomplish." 

"Perhaps  so!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "But  I  should 
like  to  see  a  little  more  done.  At  this  rate,  it  will  take 
to  Easter  to  finish." 

"Ha!  there's  the  Celtic  impetuosity  again,"  said  the 
artist.  "  The  fatal  flaw  in  the  Irish  character  —  the 
desire  to  get  things  done,  no  matter  how.  The  total 
repugnance  to  the  pains  that  spell  perfection." 

Henry  Liston  was  abashed  in  the  sight  of  such  genius. 
Nevertheless,  he  made  his  little  jDroposal. 


A  GREAT— ARTIST  145 

"Well,  now,"  he  said,  "I  am  making  a  proposal  that 
I  think  you'll  accept.  To-morrow  at  noon,  Katie  will 
have  dinner  ready  for  you.  I  shall  allow  you  a  bottle 
of  porter  at  your  dinner;  and  then,  when  you  close  your 
work  at  six  o'clock,  you  can  have  as  much  as  you  please ! " 

"You  mean,  of  course,  sir,"  said  the  artist,  with  con- 
summate politeness,  "at  your  expense?" 

"Well,  that's  an  after  detail,"  said  Henry,  diplomati- 
cally.    "What  do  you  say  to  the  general  programme?" 

"Impossible,  sir!  Utterly  impossible!"  said  the  artist 
with  an  emphasis  that  swept  the  young  curate  off  his 
feet. 

"Where's  the  objection?"  said  Henry  faintly. 

"One  o'clock  to  six  p.m.,"  said  the  artist.  "Five 
hours  of  the  severest  mental  strain !  No,  sir !  Impossible ! 
Reason  would  totter  on  its  throne;  and  you  would  have 
an  artist  maniac  in  your  house!" 

"Well,  make  your  own  terms,  then!"  said  Henry 
impatiently.  "  You  must  keep  at  your  work  now. 
What  do  you  require?" 

"Must!  Must!  Must!"  said  the  artist  musingly. 
"  Do  you  know,  sir,  that  it  is  the  first  time  in  my  long  and 
chequered  career  that  opprobrious  epithet  has  been  levelled 
at  me!" 

"Well,  you  know  what  I  mean,"  said  the  curate.  "I 
don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings  —  " 

"And  you  have  hurt  them,  sir!  You  have  racked  and 
wrenched  the  sensitive  chords  of  my  soul!" 

Here  the  dirty  pocket  handkerchief  was  requisitioned 
again;  and  Henry  Liston  was  in  despair. 

"Look  here,  Delane,"  he  said  at  length,  "I'll  put  six 
bottles  of  stout  there  on  the  sideboard  to-morrow,  if  you 
give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  you  won't  touch  them 
until  your  work  is  done!" 

"I  accept  the  treaty!"  said  the  artist.  "But  you 
should  be  careful  of  your  language.  You  never  know 
when  you  may  drive  a  blighted  being  to  despair!" 

11 


CHAPTER  XV 

A  Peace-Offering 

Gradually,  and  as  it  were  tentatively,  the  people  of 
the  parishes  at  Doonvarragh  and  Athboy  came  back  to 
their  senses  after  the  fevered  feeling  at  Christmastide; 
and  when  the  schools  reopened  after  the  holidays,  they 
were  speedily  filled.  A  few  hung  back,  waiting  to  see 
how  the  tide  would  turn,  for  that  terrible  taint  of  moral 
cowardice,  and  total  lack  of  individuality,  is  almost 
universal  in  the  Ireland  of  to-day.  Then,  when  after 
the  first  few  days'  filtering,  the  crowds  of  children  began 
to  flock  to  the  schools,  the  remnant  thronged  after;  and 
Carmody,  the  assistant,  took  his  place  every  day,  and 
assumed  his  rightful  command  over  the  pupils  committed 
to  his  care. 

Nevertheless,  and  although  in  other  ways  victory 
remained  with  the  pastor,  he  still  kept  his  house  open 
to  the  young  Wycherlys  for  their  daily  tuition  in  Latin. 
It  was  terribly  irksome  to  a  solitary  man;  and  many  a 
time,  when  bending  over  his  Suarez  or  St.  Thomas,  he 
felt  his  attention  engaged  and  called  away  by  the  neces- 
sary supervision  of  the  studies  of  these  boys,  he  repented 
that  he  had  been  so  hasty;  and  would  gladly  welcome  the 
time  when  their  matriculation  studies  would  end.  And 
now  there  came  in  the  fresh  complication  of  his  niece? 
How  was  he  to  combine  the  education  of  those  Protes- 
tant lads  and  his  niece?  Was  he  running  risks?  Again, 
he  felt  that  the  more  he  fled  from  Fate,  the  more  relent- 
lessly did  Fate  pursue  him.  Clearly,  his  old  age  was  not 
to  be,  what  he  so  often  dreamed  it  would  be,  a  period  of 
unruflQed  serenity  preluding  the  eternal  calm. 

146 


A  PEACE-OFFERING  147 

The  first  evening  that  these  home-classes  opened  after 
the  Christmas  holidays,  Dr.  William  Gray  said  to  his 
niece  after  dinner: 

"Those  boys  will  be  coming  down  this  evening,  Annie. 
They  are  nice,  well-conducted  lads,  although  they  have 
not  had  the  guidance  of  a  mother's  hand;  and  you  must 
be  kind  with  them." 

These  words,  "the  guidance  of  a  mother's  hand," 
touched  the  heart  of  the  young  girl,  who  had  just  learned 
the  pang  of  a  bereavement  similar  to  theirs.  It  softened 
her  toward  them,  although  her  prejudices  were  very 
great. 

"I'll  do  my  best.  Uncle,"  she  said. 

"You  see,"  said  her  uncle,  "you  are  very  much  ad- 
vanced in  your  studies;  so  much  so  indeed,  that  you  have 
surprised  me.  And  you  will  be  able  to  superintend  their 
studies  for  a  while,  and  direct  them.  I  am  so  busy  about 
other  things." 

"But,  Uncle,  you  must  let  them  know  that  I'll  not 
stand  any  nonsense.  If  I  am  to  direct  their  studies, 
they  must  be  prepared  to  obey." 

"I  think  you'll  find  that  all  right,"  said  her  uncle. 
"Get  your  books  down,  and  I'll  show  you  how  to  com- 
mence." 

The  first  evening's  experiment  was  not  a  success.  The 
two  boys  were  actually  alarmed  when  they  found  that 
they  were  to  be  guided  and  taught  by  a  particularly 
beautiful  young  girl,  not  older  than  themselves.  Jack's 
face  flushed  with  nervous  excitement,  as  he  took  his 
seat  opposite  Annie  O'Farrell.  Dion  stared,  and  stared, 
as  if  he  saw  an  apparition. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "get  your  books.  You,"  she  said, 
looking  at  Jack  Wychorly,  whose  eyes  fell  under  her 
glance,  "  must  commence  Caesar  at  once  simultaneously 
with  your  Latin  Grammar.  And  you  —  what  are  you 
staring  at?" 

"I  can't  help  it!"  said  Dion. 

"Can't  help  what?"  said  Annie  severely. 


148  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Can't  help  looking  at  you!"  said  Dion  candidly. 

"  If  you  can't  find  your  books  more  attractive  than  me, 
I  guess  the  sooner  you  leave  here  the  better." 

And  Dion  pretended  to  be  very  much  engrossed  in 
Henry's  First  Latin  Book. 

Jack  was  toiling  slowly  at  his  exercise :  "  Balbus  murum 
aedificat!"  the  dreaded  Caesar  lying  before  him.  Occa- 
sionally, and  very  timidly,  he  stole  a  glance  at  the  fair 
face  that  was  bent  over  her  own  studies;  but  instantly 
dropped  his  eyes  again.  And  for  some  time  there  was 
silence  in  the  room. 

The  girl's  thoughts  were  so  engrossed  with  her  novel 
position  of  teacher  in  classics,  that  she  never  noticed 
how  the  boys  looked,  or  whether  there  was  anything 
attractive  about  them.  But  once  or  twice,  as  she  pointed 
in  a  dictatorial  manner  to  some  error  in  his  primitive 
Latin  composition,  she  noticed  that  Jack  had  silky  flaxen 
hair,  a  very  broad  white  brow,  and  very  pale  hectic 
cheeks.  Then,  she  thought  she  would  see  what  colour 
were  his  eyes;  and  she  questioned  him.  He  looked  up. 
They  were  deep  blue,  and,  in  the  lamp-light,  dark  and 
lustrous.  Her  eyes  fell  before  his.  And  she  wondered 
at  herself. 

After  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Dion  became  restless.  He 
was  struggling  with  a  difficult  declension,  and  a  new  word 
—  navis.  It  was  a  horrible  declension,  but  the  meaning 
of  the  word  lit  up  the  whole  place,  because  it  revealed 
the  shining  seas,  and  the  stately  vessel,  full-bosomed  and 
straining  to  the  wind;  and  he  saw  the  white  foam  curling 
around  her  prow  and  in  her  wake;  and  he  smelled  the 
tar  of  the  ropes  and  the  odour  of  the  bitter  brine  together. 

"I  say.  Miss  O'Farrell,"  he  said,  looking  up,  "is  navis 
the  Latin  for  ship?" 

"Yes!"  she  said  curtly.     "How  do  you  decline  it?" 

"Navis,  navis,  navi,  navem,"  said  Dion,  and  stopped 
there. 

"  Go  on,"  she  said. 

"It  has  no  vocative,"  said  Dion, 


A  PEACE-OFFERING  149 

"Why?"  said  Annie. 

"Because  you  can't  call  a  ship!"  said  Dion.  "It's 
neither  man  or  woman.     It's  a  thing!" 

"Then  why  do  the  sailors  always  speak  of  a  ship  as 
'she'?"  said  Annie.  ^^ She  tosses,  she  heaves,  she  tacks, 
she  goes  before  the  wind!     Is  that  so?" 

"By  Jove,  Miss  O'Farrell,"  said  Dion  enthusiastically, 
"you're  a  born  sailor.  Where  did  you  pick  up  all  that? 
And  you're  right.  Then  I  am  to  call  navis  in  the  vocative 
case?" 

"Yes!"  said  Annie  curtly. 

"Is  there  any  other  Latin  name  for  a  ship,  besides 
navis,  Miss  O'Farrell?"  said  Jack,  somewhat  shyly. 

"Yes!"  she  said  promptly,  "puppis!" 

The  boy  flushed  crimson  with  anger;  and  a  deep  frown 
came  down  on  his  forehead.  He  closed  his  book,  put 
it  aside,  and  rose  up. 

"Come,  Dion,"  he  said,  "we  have  been  trespassing 
here,  I  perceive,  and  are  not  expected  to  remain  any 
longer." 

Then  turning  to  the  bewildered  girl,  he  said : 

"Would  you  kindly  thank  your  Uncle  for  his  cour- 
tesy toward  us  —  " 

"What  —  what's  the  matter?"  said  Annie,  now  quite 
frightened.     "  I  have  said  nothing  —  done  nothing  —  " 

She  was  now  standing,  and  was  nearly  as  tall  as  the 
elder  boy.  Whilst  a  deep  flush  of  anger  covered  his  pale 
face,  she  was  now  pale  and  concerned.  She  did  not 
know  what  had  happened ;  or  what  had  given  occasion  to 
such  feeling.  Then,  in  a  moment  recovering  herself,  and 
remembering  the  fatal  word,  she  said  hastily: 

"One  moment,  please,  and  I  shall  explain." 

And  going  over  to  the  bookcase  she  took  down  a  pon- 
derous Latin  dictionary;  and,  opening  it,  she  showed  the 
two  lads  the  word  "puppis";  and  its  meaning — "the 
stern  of  a  ship;  hence  the  ship  itself." 

The  boy  murmured  an  apology,  pleaded  ignorance, 
asked    pardon.     All    in    vain.     The    girl's    vanity    and 


150  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

temper  were  touched;  and  she  remained  silent  during 
the  remainder  of  the  lesson. 

When  the  boys  were  departing,  they  held  out  their 
hands  shyly.  She  touched  Dion's  hand  gently;  but  put 
down  her  hands  by  her  side,  when  Jack  offered  his. 
And,  looking  him  straight  in  the  face,  she  said: 

"  I  wish  you  to  remember  that,  whatever  be  the  custom 
amongst  rude  boys,  it  is  not  usual  for  ladies  to  use  offen- 
sive expressions,  especially  when  there  was  no  provoca- 
tion." 

And  she  did  not  accompany  them  to  the  door.  So 
the  first  lesson  was  not  a  great  success. 

When  she  narrated  the  little  circumstance  to  her  uncle 
at  tea,  he  smiled,  that  is,  he  said,  "H'm!"  twice,  and 
then  said : 

"It  was  a  most  awkward  expression.  And  really, 
Annie,  you  cannot  be  surprised  that  the  lad  resented  it. 
Remember,  that  he  has  hardly  any  knowledge  of  Latin; 
and  the  similarity  of  the  words  is  certainly  very  striking." 

"  But,"  she  said,  "  he  should  have  known  that  I  — 
that  no  young  Catholic  girl,  would  use  an  offensive  word 
like  that." 

"They  know  nothing  of  Catholics,  except  what  they 
have  seen  of  us  through  stable  boys  and  rough  servants," 
said  her  uncle.  "But,  do  you  know,  I  rather  like  the 
lad's  spirit.  It's  just  what  I'd  have  done,  had  I  been  in 
his  place." 

"Really,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "is  that  so?" 

"  Quite  so.  I  only  hope  that  your  explanation  will  be 
accepted,  and  that  the  lads  won't  stay  away." 

"But,  if  these  misunderstandings  arise  too  often," 
said  his  niece,  "it  will  be  rather  awkward." 

"No  danger,"  said  her  uncle.  "You'll  always  find 
that  when  a  mistake  has  been  made,  it  is  generally  a 
security  against  a  second.  And  then,"  he  added,  "  after 
all,  it  will  brighten  life  a  little  for  you;  and  a  presbytery 
in  Ireland  is  not  the  most  cheerful  place  in  the  world  for 
a  young  girl." 


1 


A  PEACE-OFFERING  151 

As  the  two  young  lads  wended  their  way  homeward,  the 
elder  got  an  unmerciful  chaffing  from  his  brother. 

"Well,  Jack,  you  did  put  your  foot  in  it,  this  time,  and 
no  mistake.  By  Jove,  but  wasn't  she  grand  though  for 
a  little  Yankee  girl." 

"I  don't  think  I'll  go  there  again,"  said  Jack,  sulkily. 
"That  girl  would  want  to  boss  us  out  and  out." 

"  You're  right,"  said  Dion,  with  a  smile.  "  We  won't 
go  there  again.  I'll  tell  Pap  what  she  said;  and  we 
won't  say  a  word  about  the  Latin  for  'ships'." 

"But  would  that  be  fair?"  said  Jack.  "After  all,  it 
was  I  who  made  the  mistake." 

"  Well,  you  see,  the  whole  thing  is  this,"  replied  Dion. 
"  If  you  say  you  don't  want  to  go  again,  there's  an  easy 
way  out  of  the  trouble.  Just  let  me  tell  Pap,  that  a 
Yankee  lass  called  us  'Puppies';  and  there's  an  end  of 
it." 

"Yes!     But  would  that  be  true?"  said  Jack. 

"  Of  course  it  is,"  said  Dion.  "  You  asked  her  another 
name  for  a  ship,  besides  navis,  and  she  called  us  '  Puppies'." 

"But  she  didn't,"  said  Jack. 

"Now,  look  here.  Jack,"  said  Dion,  "where's  the  use 
in  humbugging?  You  want  to  go,  so  do  I.  I  think  I'm 
first  in  the  running  too.  She  shook  hands  with  me,  and 
she  refused  to  touch  your  hand.  My!  But,  but  wasn't 
she  grand?" 

"In  any  case,  we  must  tell  Pap,"  said  Jack.  "I'll 
keep  nothing  back  from  him." 

The  result  was  that,  when  Miss  Annie  O'Farrell  entered 
the  room  of  studies  the  following  evening,  she  found  the 
two  young  gentlemen  before  her;  and,  as  she  took  her 
seat,  she  was  aware  that  a  huge  bouquet  of  the  most 
delicious  white  and  purple  violets,  daintily  placed  in  a 
pretty  vase  of  crimson  glass,  was  neatly  arranged  between 
her  books.  This  time  she  flushed  with  pleasure,  until 
her  face  was  as  crimson  as  the  glass;  and  a  glad  smile 
of  delight  crept  over  her  features.     For  she,  too,  had  had 


162  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

her  anxious  thoughts  after  the  events  of  the  previous 
night.  Had  she  been  precipitate?  Was  there  any  cause 
for  her  curtness  and  stiffness  toward  these  lads,  who  were 
so  well-conducted,  although  motherless?  She  recalled 
with  a  pang  the  flushed  face  of  the  angry  boy  —  then  his 
tone  of  remorse  and  penitence  for  a  very  natural  mistake 
—  then  his  downcast  eyes,  and  the  shy  advance  toward 
reconciliation  that  he  made,  and  that  she  had  rudely 
repulsed.  She  was  angry  with  herself  for  having  been 
angry  with  them;  and  finally,  she  thought,  that,  supposing 
they  would  not  come  again,  would  it  mean  a  certain  deso- 
lation in  her  life?  The  boys  were  good-looking.  Jack 
positively  handsome.  They  were  nicely-mannered;  and 
it  would  be  a  rare  pleasure,  although  she  did  not  deem 
it  such  at  first,  to  train  their  young  minds  even  as  hers 
had  been  trained.  How  would  it  be  now,  if  shyness  or 
some  other  feeling  kept  them  away  forever?  She  passed 
that  day  in  a  kind  of  fevered  anxiety,  wondering,  wonder- 
ing, whether,  when  six  o'clock  struck,  she  should  hear 
their  knock.  At  last  the  hour  came.  Six  o'clock  struck. 
Five  minutes  after  six.  No  knock.  Her  heart  sank. 
Then  at  a  quarter  past  six  the  familiar  knock  was  heard; 
and  she  watched  eagerly  as  Anne  marshalled  the  boys 
into  the  room.  Then,  after  some  vigorous  efforts  to 
control  her  emotions,  she  came  in  softly,  and  it  was  then 
that  the  peace-offering  and  scented  symbol  of  humility 
caught  her  senses,  and  her  face  flushed  with  delight.  She 
took  up  the  beautiful  flowers,  and  gazed  at  them  admir- 
ingly.    Then,  burying  her  face  in  them,  she  said  gently: 

"To  which  of  you  am  I  indebted  for  these?" 

"Jack,  of  course,"  said  Dion,  grinning.  And  Jack 
kicked  Dion  under  the  table. 

"To  neither  of  us.  Miss  O'Farrell,"  said  Jack,  "but 
to  Papa." 

"To  Dr.  Wycherly?"  said  Annie,  not  too  well  pleased. 
She  had  been  hoping  that  it  was  a  penitential  offering 
from  himself. 

"Yes!"  said  Jack.     "The  fact  is,  I  told  Papa  all  that 


A  PEACE-OFFERING  153 

happened.  He  said  I  was  an  awfully  stupid  fellow;  but 
that  I  should  apologize  and  make  amends.  He  then 
gathered  these,  and  ordered  me  to  bring  them  and  to 
say  how  sorry  I  am  for  what  occurred  last  night!" 

"They  are  very  beautiful,"  said  Annie,  still  not  too 
well  pleased  with  Dr.  Wycherly.  "  These  must  be  costly, 
and  hard  to  get  just  now!" 

"Oh,  not  at  all,"  said  Dion.  "Why,  we  have  a  whole 
acre  under  them." 

"An  acre!"  said  Annie.     "How  much  is  that?" 

"  Oh,  as  much  as  all  these  grounds  put  together.  But, 
I  say,  Miss  O'Farrell,  you  must  come  up  and  see  them 
yourself,  and  let  us  show  you  Rohira,  and  the  old  castle, 
and  the  gypsies." 

She  looked  at  Jack,  as  if  asking  if  he  would  second  the 
request. 

"Father  said,"  he  replied  in  answer  to  her  look,  "that 
it  would  be  a  great  pleasure  if  you  could  come  to  see  us. 
I  mean  some  fine  day." 

"And  if  you  can  pull  a  boat,  you  know,"  said  Dion, 
"we  can  let  you  have  one,  and  it  is  great  fun." 

"But  girls  don't  row,"  said  Annie,  who  was  an  inland- 
bred  young  lady,  and  had  never  seen  the  sea,  until  she 
put  her  foot  on  the  steamer. 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  Dion.  "Why,  Cora  can  turn 
Jack  or  me." 

"And  who  is  Cora?"  asked  the  girl  whose  curiosity  was 
much  piqued. 

"Why,  she's  the  gypsy  girl  down  at  the  Castle  on  our 
grounds.  She's  awfully  ugly,  but  she  can  do  everything 
almost.  If  you  saw  her  fighting  with  her  old  grand- 
mother, Jude  the  Witch,  and  giving  her  jaw,  you'd  kill 
yourself  laughing." 

"'Sh!"  said  his  brother  warningly,  dreading  another 
explosion.  "Better  not  speak  of  these  things,  Dion. 
Miss  O'Farrell  doesn't  care  to  hear  of  them." 

But  Miss  O'Farrell  did;  and  was  dying  to  know  all 
about  the  gypsies  and  their  ways,  and  whether  they  told 


154  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

fortunes  as  she  had  read  in  books,  and  whether  they 
were  as  handsome  as  they  were  said  to  be.  But  her 
sense  of  dignity  would  not  allow  her  to  ask  questions, 
until  the  happy  Dion  came  to  her  aid,  although  his  vocab- 
ulary and  method  of  expression  were  not  too  choice. 

"Some  day  you  must  tell  me  all  about  them,"  she  said, 
opening  her  Virgil.  "Do  you  know  that  at  one  time 
people  used  to  read  their  fortunes  in  opening  this  book." 

The  boys  stared  at  her  with  open  eyes. 

"Yes!"  she  said,  with  professional  pride.  "In  the 
Middle  Ages  Virgil  was  supposed  to  be  a  sorcerer,  or 
magician,  you  know;  and  people  used  to  open  these  pages 
and  guess  their  futures  from  the  page  that  first  opened 
to  them." 

"Jude  searches  your  hands,"  said  Dion  eagerly.  "Of 
course  it  is  all  rot  —  humbug,  I  mean ;  although  she  knew 
all  about  you.  Miss  O'Farrell." 

Here  Jack  nudged  his  talkative  brother. 

"About  me?"  said  Annie. 

"Yes!"  said  Dion.  "Of  course,  'tis  nothing.  She 
only  knew  that  you  had  been  in  America,  and  had  come 
over  to  your  uncle,  and  —  " 

A  pretty  violent  kick  from  Jack  shut  him  up. 

"You'll  come  up  some  day,  Miss  O'Farrell,"  said  Jack, 
interfering,  "and  see  all  our  wonders.  I  know  Pap 
would  be  awfully  pleased;  and  you  can  take  away  as 
many  violets  as  you  please." 

"And  we  have  lilies-of-the-valley,  too,"  put  in  the 
irrepressible  Dion,  "and  primulas,  and  snow-drops.  You 
know  father  is  a  botanist,  and  he  sends  packets  of  these 
early  flowers  to  Covent  Garden,  London,  and  every- 
where." 

"It  must  be  a  delightful  place,"  said  Annie,  musingly. 
"How  do  you  call  it?" 

"  Rohira.  It  is  an  Indian  name.  Father  was  in  India, 
you  know,  and  he  has  all  manner  of  snake-skins,  cobras, 
constrictors,  rattlers,  ugh!  the  ugly  things.  And  he  has 
Indian  knives,  and  swords,  and  funny  old  guns;  but  some 


A  PEACE-OFFERING  155 

are  mounted  in  gold  and  silver,  and  queer  old  heathen 
gods,  the  ugliest  devils  —  " 

'"Sh!"  said  Jack.  "You're  forgetting  yourself,  Dion. 
Do  you  know  where  you  are?" 

And  Jack's  remark  conjured  up  a  very  unusual  blush 
on  the  brazen  cheek  of  his  brother,  who,  however,  speedily 
recovered  himself  and  asked  Miss  O'Farrell's  pardon  very 
nicely.  And  that  young  lady  seemed  to  have  fallen  into 
a  reverie;  and  altogether,  there  was  not  much  serious 
work  done  that  night.  But  at  parting,  Annie  was  very 
gracious;  and  this  time  she  did  not  put  her  hands  stiffly 
by  her  side. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

RosLEiN  Roth 

With  something  very  like  fear  and  trembling,  Henry 
Listen  watched  and  waited  the  result  of  the  next  day's 
experiment.  He  had  little  hopes  that  Delane  would  keep 
his  engagement.  And  these  hopes  almost  faded  away, 
when,  at  half-past  twelve,  the  little  maid  came  in  and 
asked  that  the  artist  might  have  a  second  bottle  of  porter 
at  his  dinner. 

"  He  does  not  eat  as  much  as  a  child,"  said  Katie,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  "and  he  says  he  fears  he'll  never  get 
through  the  day." 

Henry  Liston  paused.  It  was  a  crisis  in  his  life.  Would 
he  be  equal  to  it? 

"Yes!  you  may  give  him  another  bottle,"  he  said  at 
last,  conscious  of  great  weakness.  But  then,  to  make 
up  for  it  he  added  with  the  most  invincible  determina- 
tion: 

"But  only  one,  mind!" 

"Very  well,  sir!"  she  said. 

He  remained  inside  doors  all  day,  although  he  had  some 
business  at  the  schools  and  elsewhere;  but  he  carefully 
kept  away  from  the  dining-room  where  Delane  was  work- 
ing, although  his  ears  were  alert  to  catch  every  sound. 
At  first,  that  is,  immediately  after  dinner,  Delane  was 
gay,  and  musical.  He  sang  "My  Pretty  Jane,"  probably 
out  of  gratitude  to  Katie,  and  evidently  intended  for 
her  ears,  for  Katie  seemed  to  hear  more  knocks  at  the 
front  door  that  day,  and  to  linger  on  more  various  duties 
in  the  hall,  than  ever  before.  But  at  two  o'clock  there 
was  silence;  and  Henry  knew  the  tragedy  had  begun. 

156 


ROSLEIN  ROTH  157 

There  were  four  hours  yet  to  the  time  of  release  and  re- 
freshment, and  it  was  difficult  to  say  whether  the  artist 
or  the  priest  suffered  more  during  that  time.  For  the 
latter's  senses  were  on  the  rack  the  whole  time,  he  had 
been  so  penetrated  by  the  reasoning  of  the  artist;  and 
his  imagination,  Hke  that  of  all  sensitive  and  kindly 
people,  ran  far  ahead  of  reason,  and  conjured  up  all  kinds 
of  doleful  possibilities.  Would  Delane  collapse?  Would 
he  break  down  physically,  and  fall  off  the  ladder?  Or 
would  the  fagged  and  jaded  brain  give  way,  without 
the  accustomed  stimulant,  and  the  fellow  become  deliri- 
ous? And  then,  what  would  the  pubHc  say?  They'd 
say,  that  for  the  sake  of  the  price  of  a  bottle  of  porter, 
the  life  of  that  poor  tradesman  had  been  sacrificed.  It 
was  a  melancholy  reflection,  or  rather  anticipation;  and 
when  four  o'clock  struck,  and  his  own  dinner  was  placed  on 
the  table,  he  asked  in  a  tone  of  pretended  ease,  concealing 
some  real  agitation,  whether  Delane  was  working  steadily 
in  the  dining-room.  Katie  seemed  unable  to  reply.  He 
repeated  the  question.     And  Katie  said: 

"I  think  he  is,  sir!  But  —  but  —  he  may  be  dying," 
and  burst  into  tears,  and  fled  from  the  room. 

Then,  deeply  agitated,  the  young  curate  rose  up  from 
his  untasted  dinner,  and  going  over  to  the  dining-room, 
he  knocked.  There  was  no  reply.  He  opened  the  door 
trembling,  and  found  the  artist  in  a  heap  on  the  floor, 
which  was  splashed  ah  around  with  paint.  He  rang 
the  beH  violently,  and  Katie  came  in,  and  flew  at  once 
into  hysterics.  Then  he  flung  a  pail  of  cold  water  on 
the  prostrate  artist.  It  had  no  effect  beyond  a  convul- 
sive shudder  which  at  least  showed  that  he  was  alive. 
Bewildered  and  terrified,  the  young  priest  looked  around, 
and  his  eye  caught  the  stately  row  of  porter-bottles  that 
were  ranged  on  the  sideboard.  A  happy,  but  sacrile- 
gious thought  struck  him.  He  rushed  from  the  room, 
brought  back  a  corkscrew  and  a  long,  deep,  crystalline 
tumbler,  drew  the  cork,  and  filled  the  glass  with  the  foam- 
ing liquor  to  the  brim.     Holding  it  to  the  artist's  lips,  he 


158  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

held  up  his  head  with  the  other  arm.  A  convulsive 
shudder  passed  through  the  frame  of  the  prostrate  man. 
The  next  moment,  he  had  flung  the  whole  of  the  liquor 
down  bis  parched  throat;  and  holding  up  the  tumbler,  he 
said,  in  a  sepulchral  voice: 

"Quick!     Again!" 

Henry  drew  another  cork,  and  filled  the  tumbler.  The 
artist  flung  the  contents  down  his  throat  again,  and  held 
out  the  empty  glass,  murmuring: 

"Once  more!" 

Once  more  the  glass  was  filled  and  emptied;  and  then 
the  artist  rose,  and  said,  in  a  dramatic  undertone: 

"Richard  is  himself  again!  But,"  he  continued,  re- 
garding the  young  priest  with  a  severe  look,  "'twas 
touch  and  go!  Never,  never,  never,  attempt  such  an 
experiment  again!" 

"Are  you  better?"  said  Henry  Liston,  in  lieu  of  some- 
thing more  appropriate. 

"  Better?  Yes.  If  you  mean,  am  I  snatched  from  an 
early  and  premature  grave?  Yes,  I  am.  But  I  shall 
carry  the  marks  of  this  experiment  to  my  tomb." 

"  You  must  be  an  awfully  delicate  fellow,"  said  the 
young  priest,  "that  you  cannot  go  for  a  couple  of  hours 
without  drink!" 

"  Delicate?  Physically?  No.  I  am  as  strong  a  man 
as  there's  in  Ireland.  Mentally?  Yes.  'Tis  the  fagged 
and  weary  brain." 

And,  as  if  to  support  the  fagged  and  weary  brain,  he 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  seemed  to  weep. 

"At  three  o'clock,"  he  said,  "I  knew  I  was  near  the 
fatal  collapse;  but  I'm  an  honourable  man.  I  had  given 
my  word;  and  I  meant  to  keep  it,  if  it  cost  me  my  life. 
At  half-past  three,  I  became  delirious.  My  senses  swam. 
My  brain  reeled.  My  intellect  tottered  to  its  foundation. 
I  was  out  on  a  lonely  desert.  I  saw  nothing  but  glisten- 
ing sands  all  around,  and  a  pitiless  —  pitiless  —  sky 
overhead.  I  watched  my  camel's  eye.  I  knew  the 
instinct  of  the  beast  would  scent  water  from  afar.     In 


ROSLEIN  ROTH  159 

vain!  Nothing  but  sand,  sand,  pitiless  sand  everywhere. 
At  last,  my  beast  raised  his  head  and  sniffed  the  air.  '  Ha  ' 
said  I.  'At  last!  At  last!'  I  looked!  Alas!  'twas 
only  the  desert  mirage  —  the  mockery  of  Nature  over  its 
dying  child!" 

The  artist  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  continued: 

"Four  o'clock  struck!  The  scene  was  changed.  I 
was  out  on  the  desert  ocean !  It  was  '  water,  water,  every- 
where, but  not  a  drop  to  drink.'  'And  shmy  things 
did  crawl  with  legs  over  a  slimy  sea.'  It  was  awful. 
Again,  the  pitiless  sea,  the  brackish  water,  the  sun  looking 
down  and  laughing  with  his  pitiless  stare.  The  albatross! 
I  shot  it !  It  hung  around  my  neck !  I  stroked  its  plu- 
mage! The  Ancient  Mariner !  The  ribbed  sea-sands !  The 
wedding  guest !  Why  dost  thou  hold  me  with  thy  glisten- 
ing eye !  My  God !  my  mind  is  wandering  again !  Quick ! 
Quick !  Quick !  Your  reverence !  Or  you'll  have  a  hope- 
less maniac  on  your  hands!" 

Henry  opened  a  new  bottle,  which  went  the  way  of 
its  predecessors.  He  wished  this  child  of  genius  was  far 
away. 

"Ha!"  said  the  child  of  genius,  "There!  The  mental 
equilibrium  is  restored  again.     But  what  a  dream!" 

He  was  plunged  in  a  deep  reverie.  A  faint  knock  was 
heard,  and  Katie  put  in  her  head. 

"  Is  he  —  be  —  better?  "  she  blubbered. 

"  My  pretty  one,"  said  the  artist.  "  Yes !  He  is  better. 
Weep  no  more!" 

"If  you  come  into  the  kitchen,  and  rest  yourself," 
said  Katie,  quite  unheeding  her  master,  or  his  dinner, 
"maybe  you'd  be  able  to  go  home  all  right!" 

"Thanks,  my  angel!"  said  the  artist,  rising  up  wearily, 
and  stumbling  a  little.  "Let  me  lean  on  thee!  There! 
Now,  I  shall  be  able  to  recuperate." 

Henry  Liston  sat  down  to  a  cold  dinner,  heated  only 
by  a  mental  debate :  Is  this  fellow  a  consummate  humbug 
and  blackguard,  or  a  fallen  angel? 

He  decided  to  submit  the  matter  to  the  superior  judg- 


160  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ment  of  his  pastor,  as  all  good  and  inexperienced  curates 
should  do;  and  he  wrote  a  short  note  to  the  effect  that 
things  were  not  progressing  rapidly,  and  that  if  the  con- 
tractor could  take  back  the  child  of  genius  and  send  an 
ordinary  worker,  it  would  be  better  for  the  progress  of 
the  work  and  eventually  for  the  pastor's  purse. 

The  result  was  a  pastoral  visit  next  morning.  About 
ten  o'clock.  Dr.  William  Gray  drove  up,  and  entered  the 
curate's  house. 

"Well!  This  fellow  is  doing  nothing?  Just  what  I 
expected.     Where  is  he?" 

Henry  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  dining-room.  The 
pastor  strode  over,  walked  in  unceremoniously  and 
glanced  around. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  he  said  to  the  artist. 

"Par'n?"  said  the  artist,  pretending  to  be  very  busy. 

"  I  say  how  long  have  you  been  here?  When  did  your 
master  send  you  here?" 

The  artist  ran  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  said, 
meditatively : 

"  I  think  this  is  the  third  —  nay  the  fourth  day  of  my 
labours  on  these  premises." 

"And  the  last!"  said  the  pastor,  "Put  on  your  coat, 
and  leave  the  house  at  once ! " 

"What?  This  is  an  outrage!"  said  the  artist  grandly. 
"  It's  a  libel  on  my  profession  —  it's  an  —  " 

"  Put  —  on  —  your  —  coat ! "  said  the  pastor  more  im- 
pressively, "and  be  quick  about  it!" 

The  artist  put  on  his  coat. 

"Are  these  your  paints  and  brushes,  or  your  master's?" 

"I  have  no  master,"  said  the  artist  grandly.  "That 
day  is  gone!" 

"Well,  your  employer?  Are  these  your  paints,  or 
your  employer's?" 

"If  you  mean  the  person  who  pays  me  stipulated 
wages  for  my  Art  —  yes,  they're  his!" 

"Then,  leave  them  here,  and  quit  at  once!" 

And  because  the  pastor  looked  threatening,  and  was. 


ROSLEIN   ROTH  161 

moreover,    a    stalwart    man,    the    artist    obeyed:   mut- 
tering : 

"  I  shall  consult  my  lawyer  about  this  outrage  on  myself, 
and  the  profession  I  represent!" 

The  pastor  slammed  the  door  behind  the  expelled 
artist.  There  was  a  sound  of  weeping  afar  off  from  the 
depths  of  the  kitchen. 

"A  most  consummate  blackguard!"  said  the  pastor, 
entering  Henry's  room.  "I'll  send  down  a  message  to 
C —  this  evening,  that  will  make  his  ears  tingle.  It 
seems  impossible  to  get  a  decent  or  honest  tradesman  to- 
day. Rights  of  labour!  The  down-trodden  labouring 
man!  We  are  coming  to  a  strange  pass  in  the  history 
of  things." 

From  which  Henry  Liston,  with  some  perturbation  of 
spirit,  conjectured  that  his  pastor  was  now  in  one  of  his 
angry  and  sarcastic  moods.  He  was  hoping,  silently 
hoping,  that  the  great  man  would  speedily  depart.  He 
almost  regretted  having  sent  that  letter. 

The  pastor  turned  around,  and  surveyed  the  room. 

"He  did  nothing  here,  I  suppose?" 

"Nothing!"  said  Henry. 

"What's  that?"  pointing  to  a  piano. 

"A  piano,"  said  Henry.     "A  CoUard  and  Collard!" 

"A  what?" 

"A  Collard  and  Collard,"  shouted  Henry.  "The  best 
makers." 

"  And  what  do  you  want  it  for?    Surely,  you  can't  play ! " 

"Oh,  dear,  yes,"  said  Henry  Liston,  who  thought  it 
well  to  use  a  little  bluff.  He  went  over  and  sat  down,  and 
ran  his  fingers  up  and  down  the  keys.     Then  he  stopped. 

"What  do  you  call  that?" 

"The  first  part  of  a  prelude  by  Bach." 

"Bach?     Who  was  he?" 

"  A  great  composer.  You  have  often  heard  of  Bach,  I 
suppose ! " 

"Never,  thank  God.     And  how  long  now  were  you 
learning  that  rubbish?" 
12 


162  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Oh,  it  took  years  upon  years,"  said  Henry.  "That 
art  is  not  acquired  in  a  day." 

"  I  should  say  not !  That  leaves  you  without  a  notion 
of  your  Moral  Theology,  I  suppose!" 

He  had  gone  over  to  the  bookcase;  and  with  his  dim, 
gray  eyes  close  to  the  glass,  he  was  peering  along  the  rows 
of  books.     Henry's  heart  was  beating  rather  wildly. 

"H'm!  Goethe!  Is  that  the  German  infidel  and 
profligate?" 

"  Well,"  said  Henry,  "  he  wasn't  exactly  a  saint." 

"  I  should  say  not.     What  is  Sammtliche  Werke  ?  " 

"His  entire  works  —  Opera  Omnia!"  said  Henry. 

"Let  me  see  one  of  them!"  said  the  old  man. 

And  Henry  was  reluctantly  obliged  to  find  the  key, 
and  he  handed  down  a  volume  of  Goethe  at  random. 

"Can  you  read  this?  Or,  is  it  all  the  usual  humbug 
and  pretence  of  young  men  nowadays?" 

"I  know  a  little  German,"  said  his  curate,  modestly. 
"I  can  read  it  although  I  cannot  speak  it!" 

"  H  'm,"  said  the  incredulous  pastor.  "  I'll  bet  you  can't 
read  a  line  of  it.     Here!     Read  this!     It  looks  like  verse ! " 

And  Henry  took  the  book,  and  read  in  his  best  West- 
phalian  accent  the  "  Heidenroslein." 

"H'm!"  said  the  pastor.     "Can  you  translate  it?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Henry,  giving  the  verse  a  free  trans- 
lation. 

"  How  is  that  the  chorus  runs?  "  said  his  pastor,  holding 
his  head  down  in  an  air  of  listening  attention. 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden. 

repeated  Henry. 
"And  it  means?" 

Little  Rose,  Little  Rose,  Little  Rose  bo  red, 
Little  Rose  upon  the  heath! 

The  pastor  poised  a  pinch  of  snuff  between  his  fingers, 
and  looked  sadly  through  the  window. 


ROSLEIN  ROTH  163 

"Good  God!"  he  said  at  length,  "and  is  the  Irish 
Church  come  to  this?  And  what  in  the  name  of  heaven 
are  the  superiors  of  colleges  doing  to  tolerate  this  out- 
rageous nonsense? " 

"It  wasn't  in  college  I  studied  Goethe,"  said  Henry. 
"They  knew  nothing  about  Goethe  there.  It  was  in 
England." 

"Of  course!  There's  what  I'm  telling  the  bishop  this 
many  a  day.  '  You're  sending  our  young  priests  over 
there,'  I  said,  'to  become  half-heretics.  In  the  name  of 
God  keep  them  at  home;  and  let  them  learn  their  Moral 
Theology!'" 

"It's  never  any  harm  to  become  an  educated  man!" 
said  his  curate,  stung  by  his  sarcasm. 

"No!  But  what  is  education?  Do  you  call  that 
rubbish  —  and  I  suspect  there's  some  double  meaning 
beneath  that  fellow's  verses  —  education  — 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden. 

Have  you  any  more  of  that  German  rubbish  here?  Here! 
Who's  this  fellow?  Richter.  Who's  he?  What  did  he 
write?" 

"Oh!  He's  the  great  author  of  Titan,  and  Hesperus, 
and  Fruit,  Flower  and  Thorn  Pieces,  etc.,  etc.,"  said  Henry. 

"Anything  like 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden?" 

"No!"  said  Henry,  going  over  and  taking  down  a 
volume.  "Jean  Paul  wrote  only  prose;  or  rather  poetry 
in  the  form  of  prose!" 

"Who's  Jean  Paul?" 

"Why,  Richter!  It  is  a  pet  name  for  the  favourite 
of  all  German  scholars." 

"Very  good!  Let's  hear  what  that  fellow  has  to  say 
for  himself." 

And  the  poor  curate  had  to  roll  out  the  seven-footed 


164  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

words  of  the  mighty  dreamer  to  a  most  unsympathetic 
listener. 

''Very  good!"  said  the  latter.  "Now,  what  does  it 
all  mean?" 

And  Henry  read  falteringly: 

Ottomar  asked,  "Who  annihilates  them,  then?"  "I,"  said  the 
Form,  and  it  drove  him  among  the  armies  of  corpses  into  the  masked 
world  of  annihilated  men;  and  as  the  Form  passed  before  a  mask 
with  a  soul,  there  spurted  a  bloody  drop  from  its  dull  eye,  such 
as  a  corpse  sheds  when  the  murderer  approaches  it.  And  he  was 
led  on  unceasingly,  by  the  mute  funeral  procession  of  the  past, 
by  the  rotten  chains  of  existence,  and  by  the  conflicts  of  the  spirits. 
There  saw  he  first  of  all  the  ashy  brethren  of  his  heart  pass  by, 
and  in  their  countenances  there  still  stood  the  blighted  hope  of 
reward :  he  saw  thousands  of  poor  children  with  smooth,  rosy  cheeks, 
and  with  their  first  smile  stiffened,  and  thousands  of  mothers  with 
their  uncofEned  babes  in  their  arms;  and  there  he  saw  the  dumb 
sages  of  all  nations  with  extinguished  souls,  and  with  the  extin- 
guished light  of  Truth,  and  they  were  dumb  under  the  great  pall, 
like  singing  birds  whose  cage  is  darkened  with  a  covering ;  and  there 
he  saw  the  strong  endurers  of  life,  the  numberless,  who  had  suffered 
till  they  died,  and  the  others  who  were  lacerated  by  horror;  and 
there  he  saw  the  countenances  of  those  who  had  died  of  joy,  and 
the  deathly  tear  of  Joy  was  still  hanging  in  their  eyes ;  and  there 
he  saw  all  the  lives  of  the  earth  standing  with  stifled  hearts,  in 
which  no  Heaven,  no  God,  no  Conscience,  dwelt  any  more;  and 
there  he  saw  again  a  world  fall,  and  its  wail  passed  by  him.  "Oh! 
how  vain,  how  nothingly  is  the  groaning  and  struggling,  and  the 
Truth  and  the  Virtue  of  the  world!"  And  there  at  last  appeared 
his  father  with  the  iron  ball-globe  which  sinks  the  corpses  of  that 
ocean,  and  then  as  he  pressed  a  tear  of  blood  out  of  the  white  eye- 
lid, his  heart,  which  ran  cold  with  horror,  exclaimed,  "Form  of 
Hell,  crush  me  speedily;  annihilation  is  eternal,  there  live  none  but 
mortals  and  thou.     Am  I  alive,  Form?" 

The  Form  led  him  gently  to  the  edge  of  the  ever-freezing  field 
of  ice;  in  the  abyss  he  saw  the  fragments  of  the  stifled  souls  of 
animals,  and  on  high  were  numberless  tracts  of  ice,  with  the  anni- 
hilated of  higher  worlds,  and  the  bodies  of  the  dead  angels  were 
for  the  most  part  of  Sun's  light,  or  of  long  sounds,  or  of  motionless 
fragrancy.     But  there  over  the  chasm,  near  to  the  realm  of  the 


ROSLEIN  ROTH  165 

dead  of  the  Earth,  stood  a  veiled  Being  on  a  clod  of  ice;  and  as  the 
white  Form  passed,  the  Being  raised  its  veil ;  it  was  the  dead  Christ, 
without  resurrection,  with  His  crucifixion  wounds,  which  all  flowed 
afresh  on  the  approach  of  the  white  Form. 

"Horrible!"  said  the  old  man.  "And  almost  blas- 
phemous.    Did  that  fellow  believe  in  anything?" 

"He  was  the  greatest  apologist  for  the  existence  of 
God  and  the  immortality  of  the  soul  that  ever  existed," 
said  Henry.  "I  am  afraid,  sir,  you  think  there  have 
been  no  defenders  of  the  common  faith  outside  the  ranks 
of  Theologians." 

"And  I  think  rightly,"  said  his  pastor,  emphatically. 
"What  right  have  these  fellows  to  be  tampering  with 
such  questions  at  all?" 

"Yet,  St.  Paul  said  in  the  Areopagus:  'Hath  not  one 
of  your  own  poets  said  —  ?'" 

"That's  a  different  thing  altogether,"  said  Dr.  Gray. 
"I  must  be  going.  But,  just  a  moment  —  how  does 
that  fellow  treat  the  question  of  immortality?" 

And  Henry  looked  up  and  down  across  the  page,  and 
hither  and  over,  and  turned  off  many  barren  and  unin- 
telligible rhapsodies,  and  looked  confused,  so  that  his 
pastor  said: 

" Never  mind!  'Tis  not  worth  looking  for!  The  fellow 
is  bad  enough;  but  not  as  bad  as: 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden ! " 

"Just  wait  a  moment,"  said  Henry.  And  then  he 
said  viciously: 

"  See,  is  there  anything  like  this  in  the  Salmanticenses 
and  Emmanuel  Sa?" 

And  he  went  on  reading: 

The  sunny  mist  was  floating  downwards  far  away  in  the  ether 
like  a  brilliant  snow-cloud,  but  the  mortal  was  retained  in  that  blue 
Heaven  by  a  long  sound  of  music  coming  over  the  waves ;  the  sound 
re-echoed  suddenly  through  the  whole  boundless  ether,  as  if  the 


166  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Almighty  Hand  was  running  over  the  clouds  of  Creation.  And  in 
all  the  orbs  there  was  an  echo  as  of  jubilee;  invisible  springs  floated 
by  in  streams  of  fragrancy;  blessed  worlds  passed  by  unseen  with 
the  whispering  of  ineffable  joy;  fresh  flames  gleamed  in  the  Suns. 
The  sea  of  life  swelled  as  if  its  unfathomable  bottom  was  rising, 
and  a  warm  blast  came  to  shake  the  sun-rays  and  rainbows,  and 
strains  of  joy  and  light  clouds  out  of  the  cups  of  roses.  All  at  once 
there  was  a  stillness  in  the  whole  of  immeasurable  space,  as  if 
Nature  were  dying  of  ecstasy  —  a  broad  gleam,  as  if  The  Endless 
One  was  going  through  Creation,  spread  over  the  suns,  and  over 
the  abysses,  and  over  the  pale  rainbow  of  the  milky  way  —  and  all 
nature  thrilled  in  delicious  transport,  as  a  man's  heart  thrills  when 
it  is  about  to  forgive.  And  thereupon  his  innermost  soul  opened 
itself  before  the  mortal,  as  if  it  were  a  lofty  temple,  and  in  the 
temple  was  a  Heaven,  and  in  the  Heaven  was  a  man's  form  which 
looked  down  on  him,  with  an  eye  like  a  sun  full  of  immeasurable 
love.  The  Form  appeared  to  him,  and  said,  "I  am  Eternal  Love; 
thou  canst  not  pass  away."  And  the  Form  strengthened  the 
trembling  child  who  thought  to  die  of  wonder,  and  then  the  mor- 
tal saw  through  the  hot  tears  of  his  joy,  darkly,  the  nameless  Form 
—  and  a  warm  thrill  dissolved  his  heart,  which  overflowed  in  pure, 
in  boundless  love;  the  creation  pressed  la ngui shingly,  but  close 
against  his  breast,  and  his  existence,  and  all  existences  were  one 
love,  and  through  the  tears  of  his  love  Nature  glistened  like  a  bloom- 
ing meadow-ground,  and  the  seas  lay  there  like  dark-green  rains, 
and  the  suns  like  fiery  dew,  and  before  the  sunfire  of  the  Almighty 
there  stood  the  world  of  spirits  as  a  rainbow,  and  the  spirit  broke 
its  light  into  all  colours,  as  from  century  to  century,  they  dropped, 
and  the  rainbow  did  not  change;  the  drops  only  changed,  not  the 
colours. 

The  All-loving  Father  looked  forth  on  His  full  creation,  and  said, 
"  I  love  you  all  from  Eternity  —  I  love  the  worm  in  the  sea,  the 
child  upon  the  earth,  and  the  angel  on  the  sun.  Why  hast  thou 
trembled?  Did  I  not  give  thee  the  first  Life,  and  Love,  and  Joy, 
and  Truth?  Am  I  not  in  thy  heart?"  And  then  the  worlds 
passed  with  their  death-bells,  but  it  was  as  the  church-ringing  of 
harmonical  bells  for  a  higher  temple;  and  all  chasms  were  filled 
with  stsength,  and  all  Death  with  bliss. 

He  wound  up  triumphantly,  and  with  a  brave,  rhe- 
torical flourish. 

"Is  that  all?"  said  his  pastor  grimly. 


ROSLEIN  ROTH  167 

"Oh,  no!"  said  Henry  airily.  "There  are  hundreds  of 
pages  equal  to  this." 

"'Tis  enough!"  said  the  grim  man.  "But,  Father 
Liston,"  he  said  gravely,  "I'd  advise  you  now,  as  your 
pastor,  and  as  one  that  has  the  care  of  souls,  to  take  all 
that  rubbish  out  into  your  yard,  and  burn  every  bit  of 
it  to  ashes.  And  then,  take  up  the  Penny  Catechism 
and  study  it.  It  will  be  better  for  you,  and  better  for 
the  poor  people  in  the  long  run  than  your  rhapsodies 
and  rubbish,  and  your: 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden." 

And  with  these  words  he  vanished,  leaving  a  sad  heart 
behind  him. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

A  Lowly  Saint 

When  Dr.  William  Gray  reached  his  home  that  after- 
noon, he  was  in  one  of  those  moods  of  agitated  thought 
that  were  so  frequent  with  him,  and  in  which  he  had  to 
walk  up  and  down  his  room  to  regain  composure.  He 
was  one  of  those  serious  and  lofty  thinkers  that  looked 
down  upon  literature  and  art  as  only  fit  for  children 
dancing  around  a  Maypole.  He  could  not  conceive  how 
any  priest  could  find  an  interest  in  such  things,  which  he 
regarded  as  belonging  so  exclusively  to  a  godless  world 
that  he  regarded  it  as  high  treason  for  any  of  the  captains 
of  the  Great  Army  to  be  attracted  or  drawn  to  them.  He 
felt  exactly  towards  the  literary  or  accomplished  priest, 
as  a  grim  and  wrinkled  old  field-marshal  would  feel  if 
he  had  heard  that  a  young  subaltern  had  stolen  out  of 
camp  at  midnight  and  gone  over  to  the  enemy's  lines  to 
listen  to  the  strains  of  some  Waldteufel  waltz.  He  would 
accept  no  hint  or  suggestion  of  compromise  with  that 
mysterious  "world,"  which,  with  all  its  wiles  and  magic, 
has  been  to  the  imagination  of  such  ruthless  logicians 
something  like  the  vampire  witches  of  mediaeval  romance, 
from  whose  diabolic  charms  there  was  no  escape  but  in 
instant  flight.  The  meditation  of  "  The  Two  Standards," 
and  its  terrific  significance,  was  always  before  his  eyes. 
Here  was  the  Church,  stretching  back  in  apparently 
limitless  cycles  and  illimitable,  if  variable  power,  to  the 
very  dawn  of  civilization.  Here  was  the  mighty  fabric 
of  theology,  unshakable  and  unassailable,  and  founded 
on  the  metaphysic  of  the  subtlest  mind  that  had  ever 
pondered  over  the  vast  abysses  of  human  thought.     Here 

168 


A  LOWLY  SAINT  169 

were  its  churches,  built  not  to  music,  but  to  the  sound  of 
prayer  —  great  poems  and  orisons  that  had  welled  out 
of  the  heart  of  Faith,  and  grown  congealed  in  eternal 
forms.  Here  was  its  music,  solemn,  grave,  majestic,  as 
if  it  fell  from  the  viols  of  seraphs  into  the  hearts  of  saints. 
Here  was  its  mighty  hierarchy  of  doctors  and  confessors, 
—  pale,  slight  figures  in  dark  robes,  but  more  powerful 
and  more  aggressive  than  if  they  carried  the  knightly 
sword,  or  moved  in  the  ranks  of  armoured  conquerors. 
Here  was  its  Art  breathing  of  Heaven  and  the  celestial 
forms  that  peopled  the  dreams  of  saints.  Its  literature 
was  one  poem  and  only  one;  but  it  lighted  up  Heaven, 
Earth,  and  Hell. 

And  there  in  the  opposite  camp  was  the  "world,"  — 
that  strange,  mysterious,  undefinable  enemy,  taking  its 
Protean  forms  from  climate,  race,  and  language.  There 
were  its  theatres,  coliseums,  forums,  opera-houses  with 
all  their  pinchbeck  and  meretricious  splendour,  where  all 
the  vicious  propensities  of  the  human  heart  towards  lust 
and  cruelty  were  fanned  and  fostered  by  suggestive 
pictures  or  erotic  verses  or  voluptuous  music.  There, 
too,  were  its  philosophic  systems,  vaporous,  fantastic, 
unreal  as  the  smoke  that  wreathes  itself  above  a  witch's 
caldron,  or  the  ashes  that  lie  entombed  in  the  urns  of 
dead  gods.  There  again  is  its  Art,  fascinating,  beautiful, 
but  picturing  only  the  dead  commonplaces  of  a  sordid 
existence,  or  the  fatal  and  fated  loveliness  of  a  Lais  or  a 
Phryne.  And  there  is  its  main  prop  and  support,  — 
this  literature,  aping  a  wisdom  which  it  does  not  under- 
stand, or  dealing  with  subjects  that  reveal  the  deformities 
and  baseness,  instead  of  the  sacredness  and  nobility,  of 
the  race. 

"And  here  is  this  curate  of  mine  dabbling  with  this 
infernal  business;  wasting  his  hours  in  subjects  that  would 
make  a  statue  blush  for  modesty,  or  an  idiot  smile  at 
their  puerility.  I'll  stop  that.  He  is  here  to  do  God's 
work  and  to  save  souls;  and  he  must  do  it,  or  —  go!" 

He  took  up  his  Breviary  to  read ;  and  the  splendour  and 


170  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

beauty  and  tenderness  of  its  imagery  made  the  world's 
literature  look  more  tawdry  and  thoughtless  than  ever. 
When  he  came  to  the  Te  Deum  in  the  office  of  Matins,  he 
found  that  instead  of  saying: 

Sanctus,  sanctus,  sanctus  Dominus  Deus  Sabaothl 

the  words  of  Goethe's  song : 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 

would  come  to  his  lips.  He  put  down  the  well-thumbed 
volume  in  disgust. 

"Serves  me  right!"  he  said.  "When  the  devil  gets 
his  rhymes  into  your  brain,  the  Spirit  will  depart.  There 
is  no  room  for  Him!" 

And  lo !  as  he  considered  these  things,  the  Spirit  breathed 
upon  him  —  a  gentle  and  almost  imperceptible  breath; 
and  his  conscience  woke  up  beneath  it.  The  thought 
occurred  to  him  for  the  first  time  that  he  had  also  under- 
taken the  immediate  charge  of  an  immortal  soul  in  the 
person  of  his  niece.  And  what  had  he  done  hitherto  for 
her?  Nothing.  He  had  amused  her;  put  her  in  the  way 
of  pursuing  her  studies.     But  her  soul ! 

He  touched  the  bell;  and  bade  the  housekeeper  send 
Annie  to  him. 

"The  day  is  fine,  Annie,"  he  said,  when  she  appeared. 
"  Had  your  luncheon?  Well,  then,  put  on  your  hat,  and 
we'll  have  a  stroll." 

The  day  was  fine  and  bracing;  a  pallid  sun  shed  some 
lustre  on  the  landscape;  and  there  was  a  healthy  sting 
of  cold  in  the  clear  air,  for  the  light  frost  lay  in  the  fur- 
rows of  the  fields,  and  the  ground  was  steeled  near  the 
ditches  where  the  shadows  fell.  Annie  in  her  tight  warm 
jacket,  with  a  little  sealskin  cap,  decorated  by  one  soli- 
tary bird,  and  the  red  flame  of  one  feather,  looked  bright 
and  beautiful,  as  she  strove  with  the  spring  of  youth  to 
keep  pace  with  the  long,  firm  strides  of  her  uncle.  He 
strode  along,  buried  in  thought,  rather  heedless,  as  old 


A  LOWLY  SAINT  171 

men  are,  of  the  efforts  his  niece  was  making  to  keep 
abreast  with  him,  until  they  came  in  view  of  the  sea,  that 
looked  cold  and  joyless  in  its  vast  expanses,  sailless  and 
shadowless  in  its  gray  and  lonely  solitude. 

When  they  touched  the  loose  sand,  which  lay  piled 
up  near  the  road,  he  relaxed  a  little,  and  then  he  said 
abruptly : 

"Can  you  play?     Do  you  know  anything  of  music?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  said,  panting  and  gasping  a  little.  "I 
know  something  of  music.  But  I  am  not  an  experienced 
player.     I  hadn't  time." 

"  You  won't  have  many  opportunities  of  improving 
here,"  he  said.  "  There's  only  one  piano,  that  I  know  of, 
in  the  parish." 

"Indeed?     And  who  owns  that?    The  Wycherlys?" 

"No!  They  wouldn't  be  so  absurd.  It's  this  new 
curate  of  mine,  if  you  please ! " 

"Father  Liston?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad,"  she  said  with 
enthusiasm.     "I  hope  'tis  a  good  one!" 

"I  believe  so,"  he  said  grimly.  "He  gave  as  much 
for  the  thing  as  would  buy  a  whole  set  of  the  Benedic- 
tine edition  of  the  Fathers." 

"That's  delightful,"  said  Annie.  "Won't  we  have 
little  concerts  —  but  can  Father  Liston  play?" 

"I  believe  so.  He  played  off  something  for  me  that 
he  called  a  prelude.  And  it  was  —  a  prelude  to  as  good 
a  sermon  on  his  outrageous  nonsense  as  he  ever  heard. 
I've  seen  a  monkey  on  a  barrel-organ;  but  it  wasn't 
half  so  ridiculous  as  a  priest  sitting  at  a  piano!" 

"  But,  Uncle  dear,"  said  Annie,  "  isn't  it  a  nice  accom- 
phshment  for  a  young  priest?  I  can't  imagine  you  now 
sitting  on  a  piano-stool,  and  playing  symphonies  from  Bach 
or  Beethoven  —  " 

"  Yes,  Bach !  That's  the  fellow  that  got  him  into  the 
prelude  and  —  the  sequence.  But,  go  on!  You  can't 
imagine  me  sitting  on  a  piano-stool.     Why?" 

"Because  you  are  old,  and  venerable,  and  solemn. 
But  I  can  imagine  you  sitting  at  an  organ,  like  that 


172  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

lovely  picture  of  the  Franciscan  monk,  his  bare  feet 
touching  the  pedals,  his  sandals  hanging  loose,  and  the 
two  angels  with  their  music-sheets  in  the  air  floating 
above  his  head." 

"H'm!  That's  inteUigible  enough,  although  I  think, 
that  monk  would  be  better  employed  praying  or  studying 
in  his  cell.     But  an  organ  is  not  a  piano." 

"No!  But  still  I  think  'tis  lovely  to  see  a  young 
priest  acquainted  with  all  the  masters  in  music  and  litera- 
ture." 

"You  do?  Wouldn't  it  be  better  for  them  to  be 
acquainted  with  their  Breviaries,  and  their  Moral  Theolo- 
gies and  the  Imitation  of  Christ  f " 

"Well,  the  two  can  go  together,"  said  Annie,  boldly. 

"No!"  he  said,  with  an  emphasis  that  startled  the 
girl.  "The  two  can't  go  together  by  any  means.  A 
priest  is  a  fighter,  not  a  play-actor.  Do  you  suppose 
the  devil  and  his  legion  of  angels  are  strumming  pianos 
—  or  snaring  souls?" 

"That's  true!"  said  his  niece  musingly.  "I  suppose 
not.     And  I  suppose  the  devil  is  very  busy.  Uncle!" 

"He  is,"  said  her  uncle  —  "very  busy,  in  particular, 
in  trying  to  get  people  to  forget  him." 

They  had  crossed  a  long  stretch  of  firm  sand,  and  now 
emerged  again  into  the  high  road,  that  ran  under  fern- 
laden  cliffs,  whence  little  rills  of  water  ran  down  to  swell 
the  small  dimensions  of  a  stream  that  was  ever  hastening, 
hastening  towards  the  great  sea.  Here  and  there,  little 
ash-trees  projected  between  the  rocks  that  lined  the  cliff- 
side,  their  withered  fronds  hanging  loosely  in  the  air, 
pushed  out  by  the  tiny  black  buds  that,  with  all  the  inso- 
lence of  youth,  were  urgent  for  development.  And  far 
up  in  the  air,  the  sharp  ledges  of  the  cliffs  were  fledged 
with  pines  and  infant  elms;  and  heavy  fronds  of  bracken, 
that  had  escaped  the  winter  frosts,  hung  down  and  fes- 
tooned the  black,  wet  stones  that  seemed  detached  from 
the  soft  earth,  and  were  only  caught  by  the  roots  that 
stretched  from  the  trees  above.     The  road  here  was  firm 


A  LOWLY  SAINT  173 

and  hard,  for  the  wintry  sun  never  touched  it;  but  the 
rime  lay  near  the  edges  of  the  rivulet  that  sang  and 
sparkled  to  the  sea. 

After  a  walk  of  about  half  a  mile  along  this  shaded 
road,  they  suddenly  came  in  front  of  a  cottage,  whose 
gabled  roof  and  diamond-paned  windows  marked  it  as 
something  quite  different  from  the  ordinary  white-walled 
cabins  that  form  such  a  distinctive,  if  unpicturesque, 
characteristic  of  an  Irish  landscape. 

Here  the  pastor  stopped,  and  opening  a  little,  rickety 
gate,  crossed  a  narrow,  gravelled  path;  and,  without 
ceremony,  entered  the  kitchen  of  the  cottage.  His  niece 
followed;  and  their  senses  were  greeted  by  a  pungent 
odour  of  soap-suds  and  wet  Imen,  whilst  the  air  was  so 
thick  with  steam  that  for  a  long  time  Annie  O'Farrell 
could  see  nothing  but  the  vast  array  of  white  sheets  and 
other  linen  that  hung  in  a  line  across  the  room. 

"Here,  Nancy,"  said  the  priest,  "I  have  brought  my 
niece.  Miss  O'Farrell,  to  see  all  your  shrines  and  altars." 

The  girl  rose  from  her  bent  position  over  her  washtub; 
and  rubbing  her  wet  hands  in  her  apron,  she  held  them 
out,  pale,  and  flabby  and  moist  from  her  work. 

"  She's  very  welcome,"  she  said.  "  But  you  must  give 
me  time,  your  reverence,  to  light  up  the  statues." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  replied.  "Run  upstairs, 
and  we'll  look  around  here." 

There  was  nothing  very  sightly  to  be  seen.  Great 
baskets  of  soiled  clothes  awaited  their  turn  to  be  reno- 
vated; great  tubs  held  the  heavy  masses  that  were  under- 
going renovation;  and  a  great  boiler  hissed  and  steamed 
above  the  range.  But  yet,  it  was  a  pretty  thing  to  see 
the  white  dainty  tablecloths,  napkins,  handkerchiefs, 
cuffs,  collars,  lingerie  of  every  kind,  spotless  and  folded, 
and  ready  for  human  use  again.  It  was  in  reality  a 
triumph  of  human  skill,  the  daily  and  hourly  conquering 
of  difficulties,  the  beautiful  and  fragrant  ablution  of  all 
the  sordidness  that  humanity  will  contract  through  all 
its  daily  necessities. 


174  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Annie  took  up  a  handkerchief  and  a  collar;  and  with 
feminine  instinct  —  for  it  appears  to  be  an  instinct  of 
woman's  nature  to  cleanse  and  to  heal  —  she  turned  them 
round  and  round  in  her  dainty  fingers,  and  said  to  her 
uncle : 

"They  are  beautifully  finished.  I  have  seen  nothing 
like  that  in  the  steam-laundries  of  America." 

"It  is  a  noble  life,"  he  said,  "if  we  could  understand  its 
significance.  It  is  typical  of  the  sacramental  power  of 
cleansing  and  purifying.  And,  when  I  add  that  all  that 
work  is  consecrated  by  daily  and  constant  prayer,  for  all 
day  long  that  poor  girl  is  singing  hymns  or  praying  to 
the  Sacred  Heart,  and  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  whilst  she 
is  scrubbing,  and  wringing  and  ironing  and  folding,  you 
can  imagine  what  a  perfect  life  it  is!" 

"But  she's  paid  well  for  all  this?"  queried  Annie. 

"H'm,"  he  said,  grimly,  "there's  the  commercial  spirit 
of  America  again.  The  great  god.  Mammon,  sole  ruler 
and  final  end  of  all  mankind." 

"No!  I  didn't  mean  that,"  she  said,  somewhat 
nettled.  "But  I  can't  imagine  her  giving  her  time  and 
labour  without  being  well  paid!" 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  think  she  charges  now,  say 
for  that  collar  and  cuff?" 

"  I  should  say  three  or  fourpence  each  at  least." 

"One  half-penny!"  he  replied,  "and  she  is  very  glad 
when  she  can  get  it." 

Here  Nancy  came  downstairs,  and  announced  that  her 
spiritual  grottoes  and  shrines  were  now  fit  for  inspection. 
They  mounted  the  narrow  stairs,  and  entered  a  small 
bedroom  with  a  coped  ceiling,  and  Annie  had  to  put 
her  hands  over  her  eyes  to  shade  them  from  the  blaze 
of  light  that  now  shone  around  statue  and  picture,  and 
every  holy  emblem  and  insignia  of  the  great  Unseen, 
that  revealed  itself  by  faith  every  hour  of  the  day  to  this 
humble  and  pious  girl.  The  old  man  knelt  down  humbly, 
great  theologian  and  powerful  disquisitionist  as  he  was 
on  all  the  arcana  which  it  pleases  the  Eternal  Mind  to 


A  LOWLY   SAINT  175 

keep  veiled  from  the  eyes  of  Humanity.  Here,  in  the 
presence  of  Divine  Faith  so  keen  that  it  had  become  daily 
vision,  all  these  terrible  abstract  questions  about  the 
secrets  of  Godhead,  or  the  intervention  of  the  Deity  with 
human  beings,  seemed  to  fade  away,  as  morning  mists 
before  the  face  of  the  rising  sun;  and  he  saw  the  stately 
landscape  of  Faith,  each  article  clearly  outlined  and 
defined,  by  the  light  of  those  wax  tapers  purchased  by  the 
sweat  and  toil  of  that  humble  woman. 

Refreshed  in  spirit,  and  strengthened  in  faith,  he  rose 
up,  and  after  a  few  murmurs  of  admiration  for  the  beau- 
tiful things  they  had  seen,  they  descended  the  stairs 
again  into  the  workroom;  and,  when  Annie  had  praised 
and  duly  honoured  the  dainty  workmanship  of  the  tub 
and  mangle,  they  passed  out  into  the  sweet  air  of  Heaven 
again. 

They  had  gone  down  the  road  towards  home  a  good 
distance,  and  the  westering  sun  was  casting  his  dying 
radiance  across  the  winter  landscape,  and  western  win- 
dows were  gleaming  in  the  yellow  splendour,  and  the  tree 
tops  were  pale  with  colour,  when,  noticing  the  silence  of 
his  niece,  her  uncle  said: 

"  Why,  Annie,  what's  this  —  crying?  " 
She  wiped  her  eyes,  and  said  with  a  little  sob: 
"It's  the  holy  Ireland  of  which  I  so  often  heard  my 
mother  speak!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

Rejected  by  the  "Powers" 

The  same  interview  that  had  plunged  his  pastor  into 
a  reverie  of  passion  and  piety  drove  Henry  Liston  down 
into  the  depths  of  despondency.  The  bitter  words  which 
he  had  heard  about  his  favourite  pursuits  and  studies 
affected  him  not  by  reason  of  their  sarcasm,  but  by  the 
suspicion  they  created  in  his  young  mind  that  perhaps, 
after  all,  he  had  conceived  wrong  notions  of  the  purposes 
of  education,  and  of  his  own  vocation  amongst  the  people. 
Was  this  old  man,  of  whom  his  predecessor  had  spoken 
with  such  singular  reverence,  and  who  bore  the  reputa- 
tion of  being  the  ablest  theologian  in  the  diocese  —  was 
he  right?  That  is,  was  his  idea  of  a  priestly  education 
the  proper  one;  and  should  he  himself  be  obliged  to  retrace 
his  steps,  and  reconsider,  in  these  the  dawning  days  of  his 
life,  his  estimate  of  what  the  circumstances  of  the  age 
demanded  from  the  members  of  the  sacred  profession? 
Regarding  the  scholastic  philosophy,  and  the  theology 
founded  upon  it  as  the  citadel  and  bulwark  of  the  Truth 
and  Safety  of  the  Ark  of  God  upon  earth,  he  had  always 
thought  that  an  acquaintance  with  art  and  literature 
was  an  indispensable  requisite  for  that  liberal  education 
which  everyone  nowadays  was  receiving,  and  which  was 
expected  also  from  the  ministers  of  a  faith  that  always 
held  high  on  its  standard  the  motto  of  enlightenment. 
The  whole  world  v/as  moving  onward  in  a  certain  track 
bordered  with  the  flowers  of  imagination  and  fancy, 
and  demanding  at  every  step  what  was  beautiful  even 
more  than  what  was  exalted  and  useful.  Nowadays, 
men  had  little  time  available,  and  less  intellect  capable 

176 


REJECTED   BY   THE   "POWERS"  177 

of  dealing  with  the  tremendous  abstractions  that  under- 
lie the  whole  of  the  Church's  metaphysic.  It  wearied  of 
such  things;  and  sought  guidance  in  other  ways  along  the 
paths  which  offered  least  resistance  to  human  thought  and 
endeavour.  Is  it  wise  to  leave  these  worldlings  to  pursue 
their  own  way  without  a  guide?  And  how  can  one  offer 
himself  as  a  guide,  unless  he  has  walked  that  way  alone? 
Forth  from  primary,  secondary,  and  higher  schools,  were 
coming,  day  by  day,  hundreds  of  gifted  youths,  who  had 
been  taught  that  the  masters  of  all  human  mental  en- 
deavour were  the  poets,  scientists,  novelists,  metaphysi- 
cians of  the  world.  These  golden  youth  have  never  heard 
of  Suarez  or  Vasquez;  had  dimly  heard  of  the  "dumb  ox 
of  Sicily,"  whose  bellowings  were  to  fill  the  whole  world. 
They  had  the  world's  shibboleths  on  their  lips ;  the  world's 
idols  were  theirs.  They  would  regard,  apart  from  his 
spiritual  ministrations,  such  a  gifted  man  as  his  pastor, 
as  "a  horned  owl,  sitting  in  the  ivied  recesses  of  some 
mediaeval  ruin,  and  blinking  at  the  sunlight."  They  will 
only  follow  an  educated  man  in  these  days.  And  to  be 
regarded  as  an  educated  man,  clearly  one  must  needs 
follow  that  curriculum  of  studies  that  is  prescribed  in  the 
great  University  of  the  world,  where  everyone,  priest  as 
well  as  layman,  has  to  graduate.  And  is  not  this  uni- 
versally admitted?  Whilst  the  "great  theologians"  as  a 
class,  holding  themselves  aloft  and  aloof  from  the  affairs 
of  men,  had  little  practical  influence  on  the  age,  except 
so  far  as  they  mould  the  thoughts  and  principles  of  the 
working  apostles  in  the  Church,  one  hears  everywhere  of 
priestly  architects,  priestly  writers,  priestly  historians, 
priests  in  social  science,  priests  in  educational  controver- 
sies, priests  in  politics,  priests  even  in  the  marts  of  com- 
merce; and,  so  far  as  we  can  see,  their  influence  seems  to 
be  a  paramount  factor  in  every  department  of  modern 
progress  in  which  they,  unwillingly  perhaps,  but  yet  by 
common  suffrage,  take  the  lead.  "The  Penny  Cate- 
chism," indeed!  It  is  very  good;  but  the  advancing  and 
progressive  spirit  of  the  age  requires  more.  For  while 
13 


178  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

envious  politicians  cry,  "Back  to  the  sanctuary!"  the 
voice  of  humanity  seems  to  say,  "  Come  out  into  the  forum 
and  the  mart!  Come  down  from  your  high  place  in  the 
empyrean,  and  be  a  brother  to  your  brethren!" 

It  was  all  as  clear  as  noonday  to  the  perturbed  brain 
of  the  young  priest,  as  he  sat,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands 
in  a  reverie  of  troubled  thought  after  his  pastor's  visit. 
It  was  all  clear  as  noonday;  and  yet  he  had  to  admit 
that  that  Heidenroslein  of  Goethe  on  which  he  had  unfor- 
nately  stumbled  was  slightly  absurd;  and  that  there 
was  something  not  quite  reverent  in  that  rhapsody  of 
Richter's,  although  his  conclusions  told  directly  in  favour 
of  that  doctrine  of  immortality  to  which  the  human  mind, 
amidst  all  its  aberrations,  seems  almost  despairingly  to 
cling. 

In  such  a  mood  of  mind,  a  little  thing  turns  over  the 
balance  of  thought;  and  it  came  in  the  shape  of  a  few 
words  spoken  lightly  by  his  little  servant.  She  said  to 
him  with  that  tone  of  easy  familiarity  that  seems  almost 
disrespectful,  but  is  not  intended  to  be  so: 

"Is  he  going  to  send  another  painter  here,  your  rev- 
erence?" 

"  Yes ! "  said  her  master,  "  you  may  expect  him  to- 
morrow ! " 

"  I  hope  he'll  plaze  him,"  she  said,  going  round  and  set- 
ting many  things  to  rights  that  were  not  very  much  astray; 
"  and  'tis  mighty  hard  to  plaze  him,  if  all  we  hears  is  thrue." 

"I'd  advise  you,  Kate,"  said  her  master,  "to  be  care- 
ful about  what  you  hear  and  more  careful  about  what 
you  say  in  this  place.  You'll  always  find  more  lies  than 
truth  floating  around!" 

"They  won't  hear  much  from  me,"  she  said;  "but 
what  everybody  says  must  be  thrue.  He's  a  hard  man; 
and  we've  seen  it  ourselves." 

"Now,  now,  now!"  said  her  master,  interrupting, 
"that  won't  do,  Kate.  I  know  the  parish  priest  to  be  a 
most  benevolent  and  kindly  man,  doing  good  to  every- 
body in  his  parish." 


REJECTED  BY  THE  "POWERS"  179 

"Faix,  it  wasn't  much  good  he  was  doing  when  he 
evicted  thim  poor  Duggans  over  on  the  hill;  and  sint 
away  the  poor  schoolmaster  in  the  village  with  his  wife 
and  children,  and  thrun  them  on  the  road." 

"Where  did  you  hear  that  nonsense?"  said  Henry 
Listen  angrily.  "There's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  what 
you're  saying;  and  beware!     Let  me  hear  no  more  of  it!" 

"All  right,  your  reverence!"  she  said,  somewhat 
abashed.  "Of  course  I  don't  know  but  what  everybody 
is  saying.  There's  not  wan  in  the  whole  parish  has  a 
kind  word  to  say  for  him.  'Tis  all  law !  law !  law !  Whin 
he  wants  to  drive  a  poor  girl  away  to  America,  'tis  the 
lavj!  When  he  wants  to  come  down  upon  a  poor  school- 
master, 'tis  the  law  agin!  But,  faith,  the  people  now  are 
taking  the  law  into  their  own  hands,  an'  they'll  teach 
him  a  sore  lesson.  They're  sorry  for  you,  your  reverence, 
an'  they  say  they'll  make  it  up  to  you.  But  I'm  sorry 
we  ever  came  here,  under  such  a  masther  as  him!" 

It  was  a  disturbing  element;  and  yet  it  had  a  sooth- 
ing effect  on  the  irritated  nerves  of  Henry  Listen.  It 
was  quite  clear  that  the  pastor's  ways  were  not  approved 
of  by  the  people;  and  somehow,  we  all  grow  into  the 
absurd  belief  that  Vox  populi  est  vox  Dei!  May  it  not 
be,  that,  as  he  was  erring  sadly  in  his  administration, 
he  might  also  be  erring  sadly  in  his  dogmatic  opinions 
about  a  priest's  tastes  and  studies?  Was  he  not,  in  a 
word,  an  extremist;  and  is  not  that  epithet  sufficient  to 
condemn  him,  and  to  prove  his  lack  of  judgment  in  every- 
thing? 

He  rose  up,  and  went  over  and  examined  his  beloved 
books.  For  a  young  man  he  had  put  together  a  goodly 
number  of  them.  There  they  shone,  in  all  their  new  and 
resplendent  bindings,  row  after  row,  the  masterpieces  of 
every  age  and  race  of  mankind.  Was  he  going  to  take 
these  out,  and  destroy  them  in  one  sacrilegious  holo- 
caust? And  then  fall  back,  for  the  resources  that  every 
priest  needs  against  the  necessary  solitude  of  his  life  and 


180  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

calling,  on  the  "Penny  Catechism"?  The  last  word 
that  was  said  to  him  by  his  confessor  when  leaving  college 
was  to  have  some  "hobby,"  some  "fad,"  which  would 
save  him  from  the  ennui  of  lonely  hours.  And,  now 
that  he  had  acquired  a  taste  for  literature,  and  had 
already  experienced  its  value  even  as  an  anodyne  against 
the  pain  of  the  gristless  mill  of  the  brain,  was  he  going  to 
throw  himself  back  on  the  vacuity  of  idle  hours,  and  the 
torture  of  solitary  thought? 

He  made  up  his  mind,  then  and  there,  that  this  was 
one  of  those  occasions  where  a  man  must  lean  upon  him- 
self, and  set  aside  both  tradition  and  authority. 

He  looked  out;  and,  seeing  that  the  afternoon  was  fine, 
he  took  up  a  heavy  walking-stick,  and  started  for  a  long 
walk.  His  way  led  down  by  the  sea-marshes,  where  he 
startled  into  a  lazy  flight  one  or  two  lonely  herons  or 
gulls  that  were  fishing  amongst  the  sedges,  and  then  he 
mounted  the  steep  declivity  that  led  to  the  cliff  that  over- 
hung the  sea.  In  a  few  moments  he  had  rounded  the 
corner,  and  struck  into  a  narrow  path  that  was  beaten 
by  the  feet  of  men  across  the  brow  of  the  fields  that 
sloped  down  to  the  shore;  and  in  an  instant  the  whole 
superb  scene,  yellow  in  the  wintry  radiance,  broke  into 
view.  He  saw  how  the  shore  bent  in  and  out  in  deep 
bays  for  miles,  sometimes  receding  far  inland,  sometimes 
projecting  in  bold  promontories,  that  pushed  their  feet 
into  the  sea.  Far  away,  far,  far  away,  the  coast-guard 
station  glittered  white  and  beautiful,  its  masts  faintly 
discernible  in  the  evening  light;  and  very  much  nearer, 
a  gray  tower  or  castle  stood  darkly  against  the  blue, 
or  rather  slate-coloured,  waters,  that  lay  in  the  calmness 
of  the  quiet  afternoon,  as  still  as  the  waters  of  an  inland 
lake.  He  stood  for  a  moment,  drinking  in  all  the  beauty 
of  the  scene;  and  whispering  to  himself  silently  that  what- 
ever trials  or  distractions  awaited  him  behind  in  those 
fenny  and  marshy  places,  at  least  he  had  a  place  of  refuge 
and  solitude  here  above  the  eternal  sea. 

"If  ever,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  am  fretted  or  annoyed 


REJECTED  BY  THE  "POWERS"  181 

by  —  by  —  circumstances,  I'll  just  bring  out  some  pocket- 
edition  of  my  poets;  bury  myself  down  there  in  some  nook, 
where  only  the  eye  of  God  can  see  me ;  and  bid  worry  and 
trouble,  good-bye!" 

He  moved  along  briskly  under  the  exhilaration  of  the 
pure  sea  air  and  the  beauty  of  the  landscape,  when, 
suddenly  turning  a  corner,  where  the  sea  had  torn  down 
vast  masses  of  cliff  and  surface,  and  deeply  cut  into  the 
land,  he  came  almost  face  to  face  with  a  young  girl,  who 
was  sitting  on  a  ditch,  her  limbs  crouched  and  gathered 
in,  and  her  head  resting  on  her  hands.  She  was  by  no 
means  a  beautiful  picture,  nor  one  that  would  arrest  the 
steps  of  a  hasty  wayfarer.  Her  face,  dark  of  complexion, 
seemed  also  begrimed  with  dirt,  and  her  long,  lank  hair 
fell  down  on  either  side  in  that  manner  we  are  accustomed 
to  in  the  pictures  of  the  Prairie  Indians.  She  neither 
moved,  nor  spoke,  as  the  young  priest  came  close  to  where 
she  sat;  and  in  his  usual  cheery  way  he  said: 

"Hello!  and  who  are  you?" 

She  stared  him  straight  between  the  eyes,  and  said, 
without  changing  her  posture,  or  moving  a  muscle: 

"Hallo!  and  who  are  you?" 

He  then  took  her  to  be  one  of  those  simpletons  that 
formerly  were  an  unpleasant  sight  in  the  streets  and 
thoroughfares  of  Ireland,  but  who  are  now  mostly  gathered 
into  the  workhouses;  and  with  some  compassion,  he  said: 

"Never  mind,  my  good  girl;  but  what's  your  name?" 

"Never  mind,  my  good  boy;  but  what's  ijour  name?" 
she  replied. 

He  laughed  at  the  absurdity  of  the  thing;  but  she 
stirred  not,  but  kept  her  black  eyes  fixed  full  upon  him, 
searching  him  all  over. 

"  You  cannot  be  a  Catholic,  my  good  girl,"  he  said  at 
length,  putting  on  an  aspect  of  seriousness,  "or  you 
wouldn't  speak  that  way  to  a  priest." 

"  So  you're  the  new  priest  that  has  come  here,"  she 
said,  nodding  her  head  in  a  significant  manner.  "  Let 
me  tell  your  fortune  and  your  future." 


182  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Oh!  I  see,"  he  cried,  as  a  light  broke  in  upon  him, 
"you're  one  of  the  gang  of  gypsies  down  at  the  old 
castle.  Thank  you,  my  future  and  fortune  will  reveal 
themselves." 

He  was  moving  away,  when  she  arrested  him  with  a 
gesture.  He  stood  still,  and  waited,  but  with  a  little 
disgust.  The  pity  that  was  springing  in  his  heart  for  a 
poor  simpleton  had  given  way  to  a  strong  feeling  of 
aversion  for  an  impostor. 

"You  wouldn't  be  in  such  a  hurry  if  you  knew  all," 
she  said,  in  a  manner  that  suggested  profound  indiffer- 
ence on  her  part,  although  she  now  stood  up,  descended 
lightly  from  the  ditch,  and  confronted  the  priest.  "  There 
are  many  crosses  in  your  path  here.  There  are  those 
watching  you,  who  will  hurt  you  if  they  can.  And  there 
will  be  treacherous  friends,  who  will  go  into  your 
mouth  to  pick  out  your  secrets,  and  get  you  into  theif 
power." 

"Tell  me  something  new,"  said  Henry  Liston,  "and 
not  that  foolish  drivel.  What  you  have  foretold  of  me 
is  true  of  every  man.  My  books  have  confided  so  much 
to  me  without  the  aid  of  a  fortune-teller." 

"  Give  me  a  shilling,"  she  said,  "  and  I'll  tell  the  truth." 

"Then  you  have  been  telling  lies,"  he  cried.  "No, 
I'll  give  you  nothing.     You  are  a  cheat  and  a  liar." 

The  girl's  eyes  flashed  fire  on  the  instant,  and  she 
clenched  her  hand  as  if  to  strike  him.  But  in  an  instant, 
a  soft  film,  as  of  a  tear,  seemed  to  steal  over  her  eyes, 
and  she  said  in  a  piteous  manner: 

"  You  are  right.  But  I'm  not  lying  when  I  tell  you, 
that  I'm  hungry.     I  haven't  broken  fast  to-day." 

Touched  with  compassion,  he  fumbled  in  his  pockets, 
and  drawing  out  some  silver,  he  proffered  a  shilling.  She 
seized  the  coin,  and  his  hand  at  the  same  time,  and  bend- 
ing down  her  face  until  it  almost  touched  the  palm,  she 
examined  minutely  every  line  and  wrinkle  and  muscle. 

Then  raising  herself  erect,  she  flung  the  hand  of  the 
priest  aside  with  a  contemptuous  gesture,  and  said : 


REJECTED  BY  THE  "POWERS"  183 

"Pah!  There's  nothing  there!  The  Powers  are  not 
concerned  with  such  as  you!" 

And  she  strode  down  across  the  fields  to  where  the  old 
pirate-keep  and  stronghold  held  watch  and  ward  above 
the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  Lucullan  Banquet 

Several  evenings  of  those  strange  tuitions  in  the 
pastor's  house  had  passed  by,  and  the  invitation  to 
Rohira  had  been  repeated  again  and  again  by  the  young 
Wycherlys,  before  Annie  ventured  to  open  the  subject 
to  her  uncle.  He  used  occasionally  break  away  from  his 
Suarez  to  look  in,  and  give  directions  to  the  studies  both 
of  his  niece  and  her  two  companions,  arranging  lessons, 
criticising  compositions,  giving  occasional  readings  in 
Virgil  and  Horace  to  stimulate  their  energies.  Then  he 
would  go  back  to  his  desk,  and  recommence  somewhere 
far  down  in  the  long  columns  of  proofs  and  explanations 
with  which  the  great  Spanish  Jesuit  sought  to  bring  into 
harmony  those  terrific  forces  with  which  the  world  of 
nature  and  the  world  of  men  are  agitated.  Sometimes, 
indeed,  he  brought  back  sad  distractions  from  these 
visits,  sad  misgivings  as  to  the  propriety  of  having  these 
young  Protestant  lads  under  his  roof  at  all;  and  still  more 
poignant  doubts  of  the  prudence  of  allowing  his  niece  to 
accompany  them  in  their  lessons.  He  had  often  a  secret 
hope,  as  the  days  went  on,  and  the  evenings  lengthened 
out,  and  the  year  was  stretching  itself  to  broader  horizons 
and  more  cheerful  conditions,  that  they  would  suddenly 
leave  on  some  pretext;  or  that  something  would  turn 
up  to  create  a  diversion  that  would  break  up  these  even- 
ing classes.  But,  no!  The  days  went  on;  and,  regular  as 
clockwork,  the  young  lads  came  in  the  evening,  conned 
over  their  Latin  and  Greek  lessons,  were  always  polite 
and  respectful,  and  always  went  away  cheerful  and 
thankful.     There  seemed  to  be  no  prospect  of  ending 

184 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  185 

an  undertaking  rashly  assumed;  and  the  old  priest  felt, 
for  the  hundredth  time  in  his  life,  how  difficult  it  is  to 
control  a  set  of  circumstances  let  loose  by  a  single  act. 

Hence,  when  his  niece  first  broached  to  him  the  pro- 
posal to  visit  Rohira,  he  rather  bluntly  and  somewhat 
angrily  refused.  The  young  girl  resented  the  tone  he 
took;  and  showed  her  resentment  as  only  young  ladies, 
with  a  certain  spirit,  can.  And  seeing  that  he  was  bring- 
ing into  his  hitherto  quiet  home  the  spirit  of  unrest,  he 
relaxed  so  far  as  to  explain: 

"You  know,  my  dear  Annie,"  he  said,  "that  this  is  a 
matter  in  which  we  cannot  be  too  particular.  It  is  not 
usual  in  Ireland  for  Catholics  and  Protestants  to  mix 
together  socially,  except  in  very  high  grades,  where  edu- 
cation is  such  a  protection.  And  then,  I  have  to  consult 
the  prejudices  of  the  people." 

"In  America,"  she  said,  "we're  above  such  little 
things.  Seems  to  me,  that  you  here  in  Ireland  are  going 
to  keep  up  the  Kilkenny-cats  programme  to  the  end." 

Which  was  rather  spirited  language  toward  such  a 
giant  as  her  uncle. 

"There  may  be  reasons,"  he  said,  rather  humbly,  she 
thought.  "We  are  just  passing  out  into  new  conditions, 
where,  perhaps,  a  better  feeling  should  prevail." 

"It  seems  to  me  altogether  narrow  and  queer,"  she 
replied.  "Why,  the  dearest  friends,  and  the  best  and 
truest  friends  we  had  in  Chicago  were  Protestants. 
I  heard  father  say,  more  than  once,  that  he  would  trust 
Lawyer  Plimsoll,  a  Baptist  lawyer,  with  his  life  and  all 
he  possessed.  And  I'm  sure  I'll  never  again  have  a 
friend  like  Dora  Plimsoll." 

"Well,"  he  said,  turning  the  tables  a  little  on  his  niece, 
"that  may  be  all  quite  true;  and  I  know  you  feel  this  old 
place  lonely  sometimes  —  " 

"Now,  Uncle,"  she  said  at  once.  "That's  not  kind. 
You  know  I  didn't  mean  that." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  said  briskly,  although  there 
was  a  little  sob  in  her  voice: 


186  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"There,  Uncle,  let's  say  no  more  of  it.  I'll  abandon 
the  idea;  and  let  Dr.  Wycherly  know." 

Which,  of  course,  meant  victory  for  Annie.  That 
magnificent  sacrifice  of  will  meant  prompt  surrender  on 
his  part.     But  no  more  was  said  about  the  matter  then. 

A  few  evenings  later,  and  just  before  Lent  commenced, 
her  uncle  said  one  evening: 

"The  days  are  lengthening,  Annie,  and  the  weather 
is  unusually  fine.  I  have  been  thinking  that  there  was 
something  in  what  you  said  about  breaking  down  those 
barriers  that  lie  between  us  and  our  Protestant  friends. 
Some  one  must  begin  somewhere.  And  after  all,  the 
people  rather  like  Dr.  Wycherly,  and  they  have  excellent 
reason.  Many  a  child  he  has  saved;  and  many  a  mother 
he  has  given  back  to  her  family  from  the  grasp  of  death. 
He's  a  good  man,  but  eccentric.  Perhaps,  it  would  be 
as  well  if  you  visited  Rohira." 

"But  I  have  declined  the  invitation,  Uncle,"  she 
answered.     "I  cannot  well  offer  to  go  now." 

"No,  of  course,"  he  said,  "unless  it  is  repeated.  It  is 
not  unlikely  that  they  may  ask  you  again." 

And  they  did.  Because,  in  that  occult  and  yet  most 
delicate  manner  with  which  young  ladies  manage  to 
have  their  way  in  this  world,  Annie  contrived  to  let  it 
be  known  that  somehow  her  objections  had  vanished, 
and  that  she  would  compliment  Dr.  Wycherly  now  by 
appearing  at  Rohira,  if  the  honour  were  again  solicited. 

The  Lenten  season  was  very  near  at  hand;  and  Lent 
was  a  time  when  good  Catholics  were  averse  from  visiting. 
Would  Shrove  Tuesday  suit?  Would  Miss  O'Farrell 
come  to  Rohira  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  and  eat  pancakes 
with  the  family,  and  hunt  for  the  ring  in  the  cake,  etc., 
etc.?  Precisely.  The  very  day  would  meet  all  her 
wishes.  Then  came  an  awkward  invitation  elsewhere. 
Father  Listen  had  now  got  rid,  once  and  forever,  of  the 
tribe  of  artists;  his  house  was  perfect  from  attic  to  cellar-, 
it  was  the  "use  and  custom"  to  open  out  the  long  rubric 
and  ceremonial  of  life  with  a  modest  entertainment;  and 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  187 

would  not  Dr.  William  Gray  and  his  niece  do  him  the 
honour  to  dine  with  him  on  Shrove  Tuesday,  before  put- 
ting on  the  sackcloth  and  ashes  of  Lent? 

It  was  awkward,  this  clashing  of  pleasant  voices  calling 
a  young  life  to  that  relaxation  and  amusement  which 
are  indispensable.  But  the  slow  intellect  of  the  uncle, 
ponderous  and  comprehensive  enough  to  deal  with  gigan- 
tic problems  in  the  metaphysic  of  life,  was  quite  unable 
to  grasp  this  petty  difficulty. 

"We  cannot  refuse  Father  Liston,"  he  said.  "It  is 
his  first  time,  —  his  great  inaugural  symposium.  He  is 
sure  to  have  asked  the  brethren.  It  would  look  ill  that 
I  should  be  absent.  And  then,  he  intends  to  compli- 
ment you,  Annie." 

Annie's  face  fell.  It  would  be  nice  of  course  to  dine 
with  Father  Liston,  and  see  all  the  priests.  But  Rohira  — 
pancakes  —  gypsies  —  old  castles !  Who  could  resist 
that?  The  position  was  difficult;  but  what  obstacle 
will  not  woman's  wit  cut  through?  In  some  mysterious 
manner.  Father  Henry  Liston  cancelled  the  engagements 
for  Shrove  Tuesday;  and  issued  a  new  set  of  invitations 
for  the  preceding  Monday.  And  so  the  double  vista 
shone  gaily  before  the  vision  of  the  young  girl;  and  she 
was  happy. 

It  was  a  pleasant  little  party  over  there  under  the 
shade  of  the  sea-cliffs,  and  facing  the  sea-marshes  at 
Athboy.  There  were  few  invited,  because  Henry  Liston 
was  somewhat  fastidious;  and  the  profuse  hospitality 
of  larger  circles  was  somewhat  repugnant  to  his  tastes. 
But  the  little  dinner  was  very  choice;  the  appointments 
were  almost  too  fine;  the  silver  shone  a  little  too  brightly; 
somehow,  everyone,  but  the  amiable  host,  felt  that  a 
little  more  humility  and  modesty  would  have  placed 
them  more  at  ease.  Only  the  two  young  ladies  present, 
his  sister  and  Annie  O'Farrell,  were  enraptured.  They 
saw  things  with  human  eyes,  and  eyes,  too,  trained  by 
mysterious  Nature  to  understand  and  appreciate  beauti- 


188  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ful  things.  The  stem  austerity  with  which  human  things 
are  viewed  by  the  priestly  eye  was  not  theirs.  Young, 
happy,  hopeful,  only  the  fair  things  of  life  appealed  to 
them;  and  their  imaginations  were  not  sobered  by  deep 
contemplations  on  the  vanity  of  earthly  desires.  They 
wished  and  hoped  and  dreamed;  and  were  happy  when 
the  dreams  came  true. 

Whether  it  was  the  stern,  austere  manner  of  the  old 
pastor,  which  he  never  laid  aside,  except  when  speaking 
to  children  or  the  poor,  and  which  he  steeled  into  utter 
hardness  and  silence  when  dealing  with  his  brethren;  or 
whether  there  was  a  general  feeling  that  somehow  Henry 
Liston,  in  his  first  domestic  experiment,  had  overshot 
the  mark,  there  was  some  chill  restraint  hanging  around 
that  dinner-table;  and  when  Henry  Liston,  in  his  sense 
of  amiability  and  hospitality,  opened  a  bottle  of  costly 
wine  toward  the  end  of  the  entertainment,  and  the  pastor, 
on  being  offered  it,  said  curtly  and  contemptuously  ^^No! " 
and  "No!"  was  echoed  down  along  the  table;  and  the 
host  had  to  put  aside  the  opened  wine  on  the  sideboard 
untasted  —  it  needed  all  the  glorious  hope  and  buoyance 
of  youth  to  keep  back  the  tears  from  his  eyes.  But,  at 
last,  the  torture  ended;  the  two  young  ladies  retired  to 
the  drawing-room;  and  a  more  healthful  atmosphere  of 
cheerfulness  and  good-feeling  spread  over  the  room. 
Still,  the  majestic  presence,  and  the  short,  stern  remarks 
of  the  pastor,  punctuated  by  sarcasm,  that  levelled 
all  conversation  into  its  own  dreary  monologue,  soon 
emptied  the  dining-room.  On  one  excuse  or  another,  the 
younger  priests  departed ;  and  the  pastor  and  curate  were 
left  alone.  Henry  knew  he  was  in  for  something;  and  he 
steeled  his  nerves  to  bear  it. 

"Was  this  your  first  clerical  dinner  in  Ireland?"  said 
the  old  man,  after  an  awkward  pause. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  curate  gaily.  "I  used  to  have  a 
few  priests  down  to  dinner  occasionally  at  M — ." 

"  You  were  a  chaplain,  then,  passing  rich  on  eighty  or 
ninety  pounds  a  year!" 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  189 

"  Yes !  But  these  little  things  really  cost  nothing  worth 
talking  about!" 

"  Indeed?  Just  hand  me  over  that  bottle  on  the  side- 
board!" 

Henry  demurely  brought  over  the  offending  bottle. 

The  pastor  read  slowly  the  label : 

TOKAY 

SUPERIOR.      REFINED. 

Vintage    188  — . 

"How  much  might  that  be  worth  now?  How  much  a 
dozen?" 

"About  eighty-four  shillings!"  said  Henry. 

" Four  guineas !  My  God!  Enough  to  feed  a  labourer's 
family  for  a  month.  Absolutely  sinful  and  criminal  ex- 
travagance. How  much  more  of  that  stuff  have  you  — 
in  your  pantry  —  I  beg  your  pardon,  —  in  your  wine- 
cellar?" 

"That's  the  only  bottle  in  the  house!"  said  Henry, 
with  a  little  air  of  triumph. 

"You  said  it  cost  four  guineas  a  dozen?" 

"So  it  did.  But  I  didn't  pay  it.  'Twas  simply  a 
Christmas  present  from  my  grocer!" 

The  good  pastor's  face  fell.  It  was  a  magnificent 
thrust  from  Henry.  But  the  old  man  was  used  to  parry 
and  fence  with  dexterity.  He  was  one  of  those  logicians 
who  cannot  be  beaten,  his  mind  leaped  so  lightly,  like  a 
skilful  picador,  to  avoid  a  frontal  assault.  The  brethren 
said  of  him  that  he  could  prove  that  black  was  white, 
that  night  was  day,  that  sin  was  virtue,  and  virtue  sin, 
with  the  greatest  facility.  He  was  born  quite  out  of 
date!     He  was  a  Greek  sophist! 

"And  do  you  think,"  he  continued,  clearing  and  fortify- 
ing his  faculties  with  a  pinch  of  snuff,  "that  you  were 
justified  before  God  and  man  in  opening  and  wasting 
seven  shillings'  worth  of  wine  —  a  labourer's  wage  for  a 
week  ?  " 


190  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Well,  you  see,  sir,"  said  Henry  demurely,  "I  couldn't 
refuse  that  present  without  offence.  My  grocer  said, 
when  giving  it  to  me:  'This  is  a  splendid  wine.  Father. 
I  can  guarantee  its  purity  and  age.  Don't  open  it  unless 
you  have  distinguished  company  who  can  appreciate  it. 
You're  going  to  Athboy.  Ah!  there's  the  man  who  knows 
what  wine  is  —  your  future  parish  priest,  Dr.  Gray.' " 

"Who  was  that  blackguard?"  said  the  pastor  furiously, 
"and  what  did  he  know  about  me?" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you,  sir!"  said  Henry  meekly. 
"But  he  seemed  to  be  very  proud  of  your  knowledge. 
The  people  really  like  priests  that  are  educated  enough 
to  distinguish  the  bouquet  of  fine  wines." 

"'T/ie  bouquet  of  fine  wines  !'^'  cried  the  pastor  in  a 
rage.  "  My  God !  Think  what  we  are  coming  to !  '  The 
bouquet  of  fine  wines!'  Such  language  from  a  priest;  and 
such  indications  of  forbidden  knowledge.  This  is  worse 
than 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden!" 

He  snuffed  furiously  for  a  few  minutes.  Then,  Henry, 
with  a  little  trepidation,  pushed  over  a  pretty,  engraved 
wine-glass,  and  said,  not  without  a  spice  of  mischief: 

"  'Tis  open  now,  sir,  and  there's  no  use  in  letting  it  go 
to  waste.     Try  one  glass!" 

And  he  filled  the  dainty  glass  to  the  brim. 

The  pastor  tasted  it,  and  put  it  down,  with  a  grimace  of 
disgust. 

"  Some  chemist's  mixture  of  quinine  and  bog-water," 
he  said.  "  I  think  you  shouldn't  play  such  practical  jokes 
on  your  guests." 

"Why  'tis  Tokay,  real  Tokay!"  said  Henry  Liston. 
"  He  assured  me  it  was  the  very  best  of  wine." 

"  'Tis  like  everything  else  you  have,"  said  his  pastor. 
"  Books,  furniture,  pictures  —  all  shams.     What's  that?  " 

And  he  pointed  his  thumb  and  forefinger  toward  an 
engraving  that  hung  on  the  wall. 

"  That's  an  etching  of  one  of  Watts'  —  Watts,  you 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  191 

know  —  the  great  painter,  whose  works  are  in  the  Tate 
gallery.     All  his  works  are  allegorical  and  symbolic." 

"  They  may  he,"  said  his  pastor  grimly.  "  But  they're 
totally  unfit  for  the  walls  of  a  priest's  house.  What  do 
you  call  that  thing?" 

"An  epergne!     A  silver  epergne!" 

"How  do  you  spell  it?" 

"  E-p-e-r-g-n-e ! "  spelled  his  curate. 

"Silver!     What  did  it  cost?" 

"'Tisn't  all  silver,  you  know,"  said  Henry.  "A  good 
deal  of  it  is  glass.     It  cost  about  ten  pounds!" 

"And  you,  a  young  chaplain,  had  the  effrontery  of 
spending  ten  pounds  on  a  gewgaw  of  that  kind?" 

"I  didn't  spend  one  halfpenny  on  it!"  said  his  curate. 
"  'Tis  a  present  from  the  Women's  Confraternity ! " 

"Another  present!  You  will  soon  be  able  to  set  up  as 
a  wine  merchant,  and  picture  dealer,  and  jeweller.  Did 
you  ever  hear  the  saying:  'This  might  have  sold  for  much 
and  given  to  the  poor'?" 

"  I  did,"  said  Henry.  "  And  the  man  was  rebuked  who 
said  it." 

"Who?"  said  the  pastor  in  a  moment's  forgetfulness. 

"Ish  Kerioth!"  said  Henry. 

"Who?" 

"Ish  Kerioth  —  Judas,  the  traitor!" 

"Oh,  I  forgot,  you're  right,  Iscariot.  Where  did  you 
get  that  new-fangled  pronunciation?" 

"'Tis  the  Hebrew,"  said  Henry. 

"Of  course.  And  you  know  no  more  about  Hebrew 
than  the  sole  of  my  boot !  There  is  more  sham  knowledge. 
Everything  is  sham  with  young  men  nowadays!" 

Tea  was  announced  in  the  next  room,  where  the  two 
young  ladies  were  in  ecstasy  over  all  the  pretty  things 
that  Father  Liston  had  put  together,  or  rather  been  pre- 
sented with.  For,  of  a  truth,  he  had  scarcely  spent 
twenty  pounds  on  his  household  effects;  but  his  friends 
were  well-off,  and  his  zeal  and  kindness  and  geniality 
had  been  substantially  appreciated  in  the  town  where 


192  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

he  had  lately  officiated  as  chaplain;  and  there  are  still 
left  in  Ireland  a  few,  of  the  dear  old  Irish  love  and  faith, 
who  think  nothing  too  good  for  a  priest.  Now  and  again, 
too,  whilst  pastor  and  curate  were  talking  so  grimly  in 
the  dining-room,  the  sounds  of  a  rich-toned  piano,  struck 
by  one  of  the  girls,  came  floating  in  subdued  melody  across 
the  hall.  All  around  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  refine- 
ment, and  education,  a  hint  of  progress,  a  departure  from 
old  ideas,  that  grated  harshly  on  the  senses  of  the  old 
man,  accustomed  to  an  ascetic  mode  of  living,  and  no 
human  pleasure  but  that  which  came  from  intellectual 
intercourse  with  the  exalted  minds  of  the  Church. 

He  stood  up,  and  gazing  down  along  the  table,  where 
silver  and  glass  and  ruby  lamps  and  rich  flowers  and  costly 
fruits  cast  light  and  fragrance  all  around,  he  nodded  his 
head  and  said,  dropping  his  words  slowly,  like  corrosive 
acids  on  the  quivering  soul  of  his  curate: 

"  Now,  Father  Liston,  we're  commencing  life  together. 
How  long  we  shall  be  together,  I  cannot  tell.  But,  I  am 
of  opinion  that  an  old  man's  words,  whether  he  be  a 
superior  or  not,  should  have  weight  with  the  young. 
Now,  I  don't  know  how  far  these  new  ideas  have  become 
prevalent  among  the  younger  priests,  or  whether  you 
stand  alone.  But  I  must  tell  you  at  once,  and  emphati- 
cally, that  I  gravely,  —  yes,  gravely  disapprove  of  many 
things  I  have  been  witnessing.  They  may  not  be  sinful, 
or  wrong;  but  they  are  unpriestly;  and,  if  you  make  your 
meditation  every  morning,  as  you  ought  to  do,  your  con- 
science should  have  told  you  this  already.  There  was 
first  your  order,  yes,  order  to  your  pastor  to  paint  and 
paper  your  house  in  an  outlandish  fashion.  Here  then 
are  books  that  should  not  be  seen  on  a  priest's  shelf  — 
German  romance,  German  nonsense,  a  poor  substitute 
for  the  Theology  of  the  Church.  If  you  continue  feeding 
your  mind  on  this  rubbish,  you  will  either  lose  your  faith, 
which,  probably,  is  the  greatest  misfortune  that  can 
befall  a  man  in  this  world,  or  you'll  become  a  flippant 
and  foolish  creature.     In  God's  name,  do  what  I  told 


A  LUCULL.\N  BANQUET  193 

you  the  other  day.  Take  out,  and  burn  in  your  stable- 
yard  all  that  rubbish  —  prose  and  poetry ;  and  if  you  have 
still  a  few  pounds  to  spare,  buy  some  good  Moral-Theology 
books  and  Scripture  Commentaries,  and  read  them,  read 
them  —  " 

''I  have  a  fair  selection  here,  sir!"  said  Henry,  calling 
his  attention  to  a  lower  shelf,  where  to  his  amazement, 
but  not  to  his  confusion,  for  he  was  never  confused,  the 
pastor  read  such  names  as  a  Lapide,  Bellarmin,  Hurter, 
Franzelin,  etc. 

"H'm!  That's  so  far  good.  But,  of  course,  you  never 
open  them.     Show  me  that  Hurter!" 

Henry  handed  over  the  book.     The  leaves  were  uncut. 

"  H'm  —  I  thought  so.  More  sham!  Wouldn't  it  have 
been  cheaper  for  you  to  get  a  few  painted  pieces  of  board, 
and  label  them!" 

"I  haven't  had  time  to  read  much  yet!"  said  Henry 
almost  crying. 

"No,  of  course,  except: 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden! 

There's  always  time  for  that!" 

He  took  an  enormous  pinch  of  snuff,  and  dusted  his 
waistcoat  in  front  with  his  pocket  handkerchief. 

"Tea  is  ready,  sir!"  said  Henry.  "It  is  waiting  in 
the  —  the  —  parlour ! " 

"No!  drawing-room!"  said  his  pastor.  "You  should 
never  say  'parlour.'  'Drawing-room'  is  the  proper  word, 
and  the  proper  thing  for  a  priest.  Now,"  he  continued, 
"look  at  that  table  to-night!  It  would  have  suited  a 
nobleman's  palace.  It  is  utterly  and  criminally  unsuitable 
to  a  priest,  surrounded  by  poor  people,  as  all  priests  are 
in  Ireland.  I  don't  object,"  he  said  as  if  he  were  making  a 
tremendous  concession,  "to  a  young  priest  entertaining 
his  friends  in  a  modest  way  —  in  a  modest  way;  but  just 
look  at  what  we  have  seen  to-night !     Look  at  that  table ! " 

"Why,  there's  nothing  exceptional  there!"  said  Henry, 
14 


194  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

very  much  nettled.  "Did  you  expect  me  to  dine  my 
friends  on  bacon  and  cabbage?" 

"  No !  I  see  now  you're  taking  my  friendly  and  gentle 
admonitions  in  a  bad  spirit,"  said  his  pastor.  "There's 
another  sign  of  the  times!  No!  I  do  not  expect  you  to 
dine  your  friends  in  a  paltry  or  mean  manner;  but  there 
are  differences  between  shabbiness  and  Lucullan  ban- 
quets —  " 

"Uncle!"  said  Annie,  putting  in  her  head.  "Miss 
Listen  and  I  are  dying  for  a  cup  of  tea  —  " 

"  Then  why  don't  you  take  it?  "  said  her  uncle  brusquely. 

"  Because  we're  waiting  for  you ! "  she  replied.  "  Come ! " 

And  he  went. 

That  evening,  brother  and  sister  had  a  pretty  confer- 
ence about  the  dinner  and  their  guests. 

"Miss  O'Farrell  was  in  ecstasies,"  said  Mary  Liston, 
"about  your  dinner  and  the  table  appointments.  She 
said  she  had  never  seen  anything  like  it  before;  and,  after 
all,  there  was  nothing  unusual  or  even  strange!" 

"Not  in  civilized  society,  certainly,"  said  her  brother, 
who  was  smarting  under  his  pastor's  criticisms.  "I'm 
glad  Miss  O'Farrell  had  a  pleasant  evening.  Her  uncle 
had  a  pleasant  evening,  too." 

"I  thought  he  looked  gloomy  and  unhappy,"  said 
Mary  Liston. 

"Not  at  all,"  replied  her  brother.  "He  enjoyed  him- 
self thoroughly,  because  he  made  every  one  around  him 
unhappy.     I  wonder  the  little  he  ate  didn't  choke  him." 

"Well,  never  mind,  Henry,"  she  said,  "every  one  else 
was  pleased.  Katie  is  off  her  head  from  all  the  compli- 
ments she  has  received." 

"  Well,  I  suppose  we  must  forgive  and  forget,"  said  her 
brother  buoyantly.  "The  pastor  is  one  of  that  large 
class  that  must  be  forgiven  everything  because  they 
mean  well." 

"  Well,  I'm  very  glad  I  have  known  Annie,"  she  said. 
"She  appears  to  be  a  sweet  and  accomplished  girl." 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  195 

"So  am  I  glad,"  he  answered.  "That  poor  girl's  life 
must  be  a  trying  one;  and  she  needs  a  friend." 

"She  told  me  she  was  going  to  Rohira  to-morrow," 
said  his  sister,  "and  she  asked  me  to  accompany  her." 

"To  Wycherly's?"  said  her  brother,  eyes  open  in  sur- 
prise.    "Wonders  will  never  cease." 

"Do  you  think  I  may  go,  even  without  an  invitation?" 

"Certainly.  Dr.  Wycherly  is  a  good  man,  and  does 
not  stand  on  ceremony.  Well,  here  goes  for  a  breath  of 
fresh  air,  while  Katie  is  clearing  up  the  table." 

He  put  on  his  overcoat,  took  a  strong  stick,  and  bent 
his  steps  toward  the  cliffs.  It  was  a  night  made  lovely 
by  the  moon,  whose  beams,  unlike  the  more  glaring  sun- 
beams, which  accentuate  light  and  shadow,  seemed  to 
shed  a  uniform  lustre  of  pale  silver  across  sea  and  land. 
The  air  was  very  mild  down  there  by  the  sea;  and  when  he 
turned  the  corner,  where  the  cliff  broke  away  at  right 
angles,  and  came  suddenly,  face  to  face,  with  the  long 
sweep  of  sea  to  the  far  horizon,  rippling  in  the  moonlight, 
and  the  long  sweep  of  coast,  where  the  fields  sloped  down 
to  the  low  cliffs  that  broke  the  violence  of  the  ocean,  he 
thought  he  had  never  seen  a  lovelier  sight.  Lights,  look- 
ing quite  red  in  the  moonlight,  seemed  to  burn  at  Rohira, 
and  far  up  the  coast  at  the  station ;  and  one  solitary  lamp 
lit  up  the  dusky  and  picturesque  pile  of  Dunkerrin  Castle, 
that  seemed  now  almost  beneath  him.  It  was  a  scene 
that  might  have  shed  its  placid  enchantment  on  a  more 
perturbed  spirit  than  Henry  Liston's;  for,  with  all  the 
buoyancy  and  spring  of  youth,  his  spirit  rose  up  hope- 
ful from  the  depths  of  a  depression  that  would  have  em- 
bittered for  weeks  an  older  and  more  inelastic  disposition, 
that  had  passed  through  the  conflict,  and  found  its  wings 
maimed  or  broken. 

Whilst  he  moved  along  rapidly,  yet  pausing  from  time 
to  time  to  permit  the  beauty  of  the  scene  to  enter  and 
sanctify  his  spirit,  and  whilst  he  allowed  the  rapture  of 
the  sea  beneath  the  moonlight  particularly  to  intoxicate 
his  senses,  he  thought  he  saw  in  near  the  shore  something 


196  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

like  a  spectre  gliding  over  the  waters.  It  was  pearly 
white,  unlike  the  gray-white  of  a  sail;  and  it  was  not  the 
shape  of  any  sail  he  had  ever  seen,  but  a  woman's  form, 
transparent,  as  he  thought,  against  the  moonlight.  He 
descended  rapidly  a  narrow,  beaten  path  that  led  down 
from  the  heights  to  the  high  ditch  that  guarded  the  cliffs ; 
and,  passing  rapidly  onward,  he  soon  came  quite  close 
to  Dunkerrin  Castle.  The  eerie  character  of  the  place 
and  the  dangerous  character  of  its  inhabitants  forbade 
him  going  further;  but  he  saw  clearly  beneath  him  a  tiny 
boat  or  punt,  propelled  by  no  human  hands  apparently, 
and  in  the  prow,  standing  upright,  was  the  spirit-form  that 
he  had  recognized  from  the  cliffs  overhead.  Utterly 
stupefied,  and  somewhat  frightened,  he  uttered  a  shrill 
cry;  and  just  then  boat  and  occupant  seemed  to  vanish 
from  beneath  him,  and  to  be  swallowed  up  beneath  the 
rocks  on  which  the  old  keep  was  built.  He  leaned  up 
against  the  damp  face  of  the  ditch  in  a  kind  of  stupor, 
from  which  he  was  only  aroused  by  a  voice  at  his  side: 

"Priest  Liston,  thou  hast  wassailed  and  wantoned  to- 
night. Thy  veins  are  inflamed  with  wine;  and  thy  brain 
is  intoxicated  with  forbidden  music.  Dost  thou  consider 
that  half  the  poor  of  thy  parish,  who  have  gone  supper- 
less  to  bed  to-night,  and  whose  little  ones  cry  vainly 
for  bread,  might  be  fed  with  the  refuse  of  thy  ban- 
quet?" 

It  was  Judith.  She  stood  over  him,  appearing  in  the 
mist  of  moonlight  much  taller  than  she  really  was;  but 
he  did  not  notice  this,  nor  take  account  of  her  apparel, 
which  was  ragged  and  grimy  enough:  he  saw  only  her 
two  black,  glowing  eyes  fixed  upon  him  in  anger  and  con- 
tempt; he  heard  only  her  bitter  and  untruthful  charges 
against  himself.  The  injustice  of  the  thing  stung  him, 
and  he  answered  back  in  her  own  style: 

"Thou  liest,  woman!  I  have  neither  wassailed  nor 
wantoned !  And  there  is  not  in  the  whole  parish  a  single 
child  gone  supperless  to  bed  to-night!" 

"  What  do  you  know  of  the  parish?  "  she  said.     "  Have 


A  LUCULLAN  BANQUET  197 

you  entered  a  single  cabin  since  you  came  hither,  or  knelt 
by  a  single  sick-bed?" 

"  No  J"  he  said  feebly.  "  I  haven't  been  called.  I  have 
never  shirked  duty;  nor  refused  a  call  from  the  sick  or 
suffering!" 

"  You  were  too  busy  about  your  own  castle  to  heed  the 
cabin,"  she  replied.  "Whilst  you  were  feasting,  your 
pampered  servants  drove  the  poor  and  starving  from 
your  door." 

"Not  the  deserving  poor!"  he  said.  "At  least  not 
with  my  knowledge.  They  have  instructions  to  break 
bread  to  every  child  of  Adam,  except  the  thief  and  the 
wastrel!" 

"And  how  are  they,  or  you,  to  know  the  thief  and  the 
wastrel?"  she  hissed  in  anger.  "Do  you  think  you  can 
discover  hypocrites,  because  you  are  a  hypocrite  your- 
self?" 

"  I  have  had  enough  of  this,"  he  said.  "  Don't  attempt 
to  accost  me  again,  so  long  as  you  are  in  this  parish!  And 
it  will  be  a  short  time  enough,  if  I  can  help  it." 

"I  defy  you,"  she  said.  "Your  Mass-bell  rings  but 
once  a  week.     My  God,  Ahriman,  is  always  with  me!" 

He  went  home  in  a  mood  from  which  even  his  kind 
sister  could  not  arouse  him.  He  had  some  tea  in  silence, 
and  then  he  took  down  some  books,  and  began  to  read. 
He  only  said: 

"'Tis  a  strange,  uncanny  place,  Mary!  I  don't  know 
what  to  think  of  it.  They  appear  to  be  outside  civiliza- 
tion. Did  any  tramps  or  beggars  call  around  the  place 
during  dinner?  " 

"I'll  ask  Kate!"  she  said. 

And  Kate  was  able  to  inform  her  that  a  girl  of  fourteen 
or  fifteen  years  or  more  was  prowling  around  the  stables 
and  the  house  all  the  evening,  trying  to  peer  through  the 
windows,  and  talking  to  the  servants  of  the  priests  who 
had  been  at  dinner.  She  once  ventured  into  the  kitchen, 
from  which  she  was  summarily  ejected,  and  she  cursed 
them  all  in  Irish,  Kate  said. 


198  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"I  see;  that  explains  something,"  Henry  said  to  his 
sister.     "I'll  have  a  quiet  read  before  I  go  to  bed." 

And  he  took  down  some  of  his  gods  from  their  shelves; 
and  bade  them  speak  to  him.  An  unwise  thing  for  a 
young  man!  For  he  who  sups  with  the  Olympians  will 
find  it  hard  to  breakfast  with  boulevardiers. 


I 


CHAPTER  XX 

A  Visit  and  a  Prophecy 

Down  along  that  moonlight  drive  of  five  or  six  miles 
with  her  uncle,  Annie's  heart  was  singing  joyously,  with 
the  delight  of  having  seen  some  of  those  fair  and  beauti- 
ful things  in  which  the  spirit  of  a  young  girl  rejoices,  and 
also  in  having  made  a  new  acquaintance  —  that  of  a 
friend  whose  tastes  and  desires  (so  she  had  ascertained 
in  their  friendly  colloquy  after  dinner)  were  exactly  iden- 
tical with  her  own.  And,  perhaps,  the  ear  of  this  weary 
world,  so  full  of  sighs,  and  anguish,  and  regrets,  hears 
nothing  half  so  sweet  as  those  delightful  interchanges  of 
ideas  and  sentiments  that  take  place  between  two  young 
girls,  whose  dissimilarity  of  age,  although  not  very  great, 
is  yet  no  barrier  to  the  outpouring  of  confidences,  that 
seems  to  establish  on  the  moment  a  treaty  of  life-long 
friendship.  She  was  so  full  of  joy  and  innocent  girlish 
thankfulness  that  she  should  speak  to  the  grim  old  mentor 
at  her  side. 

"  Well,  that  was  the  most  enjoyable  evening  I  ever  yet 
spent.     Wasn't  it  delightful.  Uncle?" 

"  H'm,"  said  the  uncle,  holding  the  reins  steady  on  the 
old  roadster,  whose  long  paces  and  methodical  steps 
seemed  quite  in  keeping  with  his  master's  ways. 

"  I'm  beginning  to  understand  Ireland  better  now,  the 
dear  old  Ireland,  of  which  mother  used  to  speak  —  so 
genial,  so  kind,  so  hospitable!" 

"H'm-m-m!" 

"And  it  was  all  so  pretty  —  the  silver,  the  glass,  the 
dinner-ware,  the  lovely  flowers  and  grapes.  Why  didn't 
you  drink  that  wine.  Uncle,  that  Father  Listen  opened?" 

199 


200  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Because  I  wanted  to  avoid  a  sudden  death,"  said  her 
uncle. 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Annie,  unconsciously,  "I  have  heard 
that  these  wines  are  bad  for  old  persons." 

"  Yes,   and   for  young  persons,   too,"   said   her  uncle, 
savagely. 

"  Indeed?  I  suppose  so.  But,  perhaps,  it  is  the  fashion 
to  offer  them.  I'm  not  well  made  up  in  these  things. 
Miss  Liston  told  me  a  lot!" 

"H'm-m-m!" 

"She's  a  most  delightful  girl  —  except  Dora  Plimsoll, 
whom  I  shall  never  forget,  she's  the  most  attractive  girl 
I  ever  knew." 

"Like  her  brother?"  said  the  old  man. 

"Yes,  indeed,"  said  Annie,  "she  really  resembles  him 
a  good  deal.  And  she  adores  him.  She  thinks  there's 
no  one  in  the  world  like  Henry,  as  she  calls  him." 

"I  agree  with  her  there,"  said  her  uncle.  " He  is  quite 
exceptional  in  every  way." 

"Oh,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  Uncle,"  she  said. 
"Won't  Mary  be  pleased  to  hear  that!  She  was  saying 
how  anxious  her  mother  was  that  you  and  he  could  get 
on  together.  Did  you  know  her  mother,  Uncle?  She 
said,  I  think,  that  she  knew  you  at  one  time." 

"I  did,  well,"  he  replied.  "A  good,  simple,  honest 
Christian  woman,  with  no  nonsense  about  her,  none  of 
these  fandangoes  that  are  becoming  fashionable  nowa- 
days!" 

"But  did  you  know  Mary?  No,  I  suppose  she's  too 
young!" 

"  I  baptized  her!"  said  her  uncle,  and  then  he  was  silent. 
The  little  remembrance  softened  him  a  good  deal. 

For  a  few  miles  they  drove  along  in  silence,  till  very  near 
home,  when  Annie  said: 

"Do  you  know,  Uncle,  I  have  done  a  rash  thing;  but  I 
hope  it  is  all  right!" 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  said  her  uncle  grimly.  "Well, 
what  is  it?" 


A  VISIT  AND  A  PROPHECY  201 

"I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  Mary  Liston  to  go  with 
me  to  Rohira  to-morrow.  Of  course,  I  have  had  no  invi- 
tation for  her.  Will  it  make  any  difference,  do  you 
think?" 

"It  might  elsewhere,"  he  replied,  "but  Dr.  Wycherly 
is  a  sensible  man;  and  doesn't  mind  nonsense  of  that 
kind." 

"She'll  come  down  here,  and  we  can  go  together  to 
Rohira.     You'll  give  us  the  covered  car,  won't  you?" 

"By  all  means,"  he  said,  more  cheerfully.  "Tell  Bob, 
and  he'll  be  ready." 

In  fact  this  arrangement  solved  one  of  these  new  troubles 
that  seemed  to  rise,  like  bubbles,  out  of  the  quiet  waters 
of  life.  He  had  great  misgivings  about  those  evening 
tuitions  of  his  niece;  and,  after  he  had  given  a  hasty  con- 
sent to  her  visiting  Rohira,  the  grave  indelicacy  of  the 
situation  seemed  to  strike  him.  But  he  had  no  choice. 
He  could  not  damp  the  spirits  of  this  young  and  joyous 
being  by  withdrawing  the  permission  on  the  ground  that 
the  visit  was  unusual  or  irregular,  and  he  dared  not  hint 
at  possible  complications  that  might  arise.  He  had  to 
bow  his  head  to  destiny,  and  destiny  came  again  to  his  aid. 

And  so,  the  following  afternoon,  a  bright  breezy  spring 
day,  with  warmth  in  the  air,  fragrance  and  beauty  burst- 
ing from  the  earth,  and  great  fleecy  clouds  chasing  one 
another  across  the  blue  fields  of  heaven,  the  two  young 
girls,  in  the  happy  springtime  of  life,  drove  up  along  the 
sloping  road  that  led  to  the  high  grounds  above  the  sea. 
It  was  so  warm  that  they  gladly  dispensed  with  their 
furs,  and  Annie  said: 

"I'm  sorry  now  we  didn't  bring  the  side-car.  Do  you 
know,  Mary,  I  don't  like  these  covered  cars.  They  shut 
out  the  view  and  they  are  so  close  and  stuffy." 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  said  the  more  experienced  Mary, 
"  but  when  we  are  coming  home,  and  there  is  no  landscape, 
and  Jack  Frost  is  nipping  our  faces,  it  will  be  no  harm 
to  have  a  little  shelter.  Who  lives  there?  It  is  a  nice 
situation." 


202  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  I  believe  one  of  my  countrymen  —  a  returned  Yank, 
like  myself,"  said  Annie.  "  I  believe  that  place  has  been 
some  trouble  to  my  uncle." 

"And  look,"  said  Mary,  ''what  horrid-looking  fellows!" 

These  were  the  emergency-men,  who,  after  the  day's 
work,  were  lazily  leaning  over  the  ditch,  smoking  their 
short  pipes,  and  making  savage  remarks  on  things  in 
general. 

"Do  you  know,  Annie,"  said  her  friend,  "I  am  afraid 
there  are  some  horrid  people  here.  There  was  some 
young  girl  prowling  around  our  kitchen  last  night;  and 
at  last  Jem  had  to  put  her  out;  and  she  used  dreadful 
language.  And  now,  look  at  these.  I  shall  be  afraid 
to  come  back  this  way,  when  it  is  night." 

"There's  no  danger,"  said  the  courageous  Annie. 
"That's  where  Kerins  lives;  and  these  are  workmen  sent 
out  by  some  gentlemen,  for  no  one  here  would  work  for 
him.  There's  something  against  him.  I  don't  understand 
it.  But,  you  see,"  she  continued,  airing  her  superior 
wisdom,  "these  men  are  for  the  law.  They're  a  kind  of 
police,  and  therefore  we're  safe  from  them." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Mary  Liston,  feeling  much 
more  comfortable  for  the  explanation.  "If  they  are  a 
kind  of  police,  we  could  call  on  them  to  protect  us." 

"Of  course,"  said  Annie,  "Let  me  fix  your  veil;  it's 
drooping  a  little." 

By  and  by,  they  came  to  the  gate  that  led  down  a 
winding  avenue  from  the  upper  road  to  Rohira;  and,  as 
they  turned  into  the  broader  sweep  that  led  to  the  door, 
both  girls  gave  an  involuntary  cry  of  surprise  at  the 
beauty  of  the  scene  that  lay  before  them.  Dunkerrin 
Castle,  a  little  to  the  right,  seemed  to  lie  right  beneath 
them,  for  the  slope  of  the  fields  was  precipitous;  and  they 
had  not  yet  time  to  measure  distances,  nor  see  things  in 
perspective.  For  the  same  reason,  the  vast  expanse  of 
ocean,  instead  of  appearing,  as  it  would  appear  to  trained 
and  accustomed  senses,  a  great  level  of  tranquil  and 
gleaming  waters,  now  seemed  to  rise  up  before  them  as 


A  VISIT  AND   A   PROPHECY  203 

a  gray  and  gleaming  wall  of  crystal,  mounting  high  over 
their  heads,  and  impenetrable  as  the  wall  of  a  prison. 
And  the  coast-line,  dark  and  well-defined  in  the  waning 
light  of  a  March  evening,  had  every  rock  and  pinnacle, 
every  bay  and  headland,  defined  as  if  an  artist  had  drawn 
deep,  dark  boundary  lines  across  them,  and  defined  them 
as  a  map,  and  not  as  a  picture.  The  girls  stopped  the 
car,  and  dismounted,  walking  slowly  along  the  well- 
gravelled  walk  that  led  to  the  front  of  the  mansion,  and 
pausing,  now  and  again,  little  poets  as  they  were,  to 
drink  in  the  beauty  that  lay  so  solemn  on  earth  and  sky 
and  sea. 

Dr.  Wycherly  came  forth  to  meet  them,  having  heard 
the  sound  of  the  carriage  wheels  on  the  gravel.  With 
old-fashioned  courtesy,  he  had  put  aside  his  velvet  jacket, 
and  now  appeared  in  a  close-fitting  coat,  such  as  profes- 
sional men  wear  in  cities.  His  long  hair  curled  down 
upon  his  shoulders;  his  beard  was  neatly  trimmed;  and 
he  saluted  and  welcomed  his  girl-visitors  with  all  the  defer- 
ence he  would  have  paid  to  the  first  lady  in  the  land. 
He  manifested  not  the  slightest  surprise  in  seeing  two 
visitors,  where  only  one  was  expected.  He  simply  mur- 
mured interrogatively: 

"  Miss  —  ?  "  bowing  to  Annie. 

"Miss  O'Farrell,"  said  Annie,  with  equal  simplicity. 
"And  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of  bringing  my  friend, 
Miss  Liston,  to  see  Rohira.  Uncle  said  you  wouldn't 
mind!" 

"Your  good  uncle,"  he  said,  "compliments  me,  by 
speaking  the  truth.  I  am  greatly  pleased  that  you  both 
have  honoured  me  with  your  presence.  The  boys,  whom 
you  know  better,  are  not  yet  returned  from  school.  But 
I  shall  show  you  all  my  curios,  to  interest  you,  till  they 
return." 

He  took  them  into  the  great  hall,  which  spread  aloft, 
heavy  with  stucco,  wrought  in  cornice  and  ceiling  into 
all  kinds  of  fancy  fruits  and  flowers  and  figures.  The 
walls  were  literally  covered  with  all  kinds  of  Hindu  arms 


204  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

and  ornaments  —  bead  work,  entangled  in  all  kinds  of 
fancy  devices;  heavy  lacquered  ware,  with  strange  Hindu 
emblems;  costly  Benares  vases  suspended  on  moulded 
brackets;  and  an  armoury  of  guns  and  pistols,  and  sabres 
crooked  and  vicious-looking,  and  Paythan  knives  with 
their  heavy  ivory  handles.  On  the  tables  of  delicately- 
wrought  or  engraved  brass  were  valuable  sets  of  chess- 
men, made  from  the  purest  ivory;  and  work-boxes  and 
writing-desks,  from  which  the  faint  aroma  of  rare  and 
precious  woods  exhaled.  On  every  blank  space,  the 
hideous  scaled  skin  of  some  dangerous  species  of  reptile 
stretched  its  dried  folds,  the  ugly  triangular  head  with 
its  naked  fangs  glaring  down,  as  if  in  life,  upon  the  visitors. 
The  girls  shuddered,  and  drew  together;  and  Dr.  Wycherly, 
noticing  the  gesture,  conducted  them,  beneath  the  rare 
and  costly  tapestry  that  half-covered  an  entrance,  into 
his  drawing-room. 

Here  again  he  excited  their  surprise  and  curiosity  by 
showing  and  explaining  in  detail  many  a  wonderful  book, 
or  picture,  or  article  of  virtu  he  had  picked  up  in  his 
travels;  and  then,  when  their  curiosity  was  sated,  he 
bade  them  sit  on  a  carved  oak  sofa,  until  he  would  dis- 
cover and  exhibit  the  prize  of  his  collection. 

This  he  took  with  some  precaution  and  not  a  little 
reverence  from  the  cabinet  near  the  window;  and  beckon- 
ing the  young  ladies  forward  until  the  long  light  of  the 
westering  sun  fell  full  upon  it,  he  opened  the  box,  and  with 
some  tenderness  and  awe,  bade  them  inspect  it.  They 
could  see  nothing  but  a  little  golden  dust,  a  strand  or 
two  of  fine  hair,  and  some  broken  paper;  and  they  looked 
at  him  for  an  explanation. 

"You  see  there,  my  dear  ladies,"  he  said,  "the  relics, 
the  precious  relics  of  my  dear,  dead  wife.  This  is  her 
hair,  crumbled  away  into  a  kind  of  golden  dust  under  the 
alchemy  of  Death  and  Time;  for  Death  is  not  the  great 
Destroyer.  He  needs  Time,  as  an  apprentice,  to  perfect 
his  work.  This  is  the  remnant  of  her  farewell  letter  to 
me:  alas!  it  was  illegible,  or  rather  so  fragile  that  it  per- 


A  VISIT  AND  A  PROPHECY  205 

ished  in  my  hands.  They  both  came  to  me  in  a  singular 
manner.  I  knew  that  the  spirit  of  my  dear,  dead  wife 
haunted  the  old  castle  down  there  on  the  cliffs.  She 
loved  the  sea  and  that  old  keep  in  life.  She  used  to 
spend  her  days  there,  watching  the  sea  from  one  window, 
which  I  shall  show  you.  Her  spirit  haunts  the  old  ruin 
still.  She  is  often  seen  there  on  fine,  moonlight  nights, 
like  this.  Don't  start,  my  dear  young  ladies!  The 
spirits  of  our  beloved  dead  cannot  hurt  us.  Do  you 
think  that  those  who  loved  us  in  life,  come  back  to  harm 
us  in  death?  No!  Impossible!  Well,  I  used  to  go 
down  there  often,  very  often  in  past  days,  seeking  for 
one,  at  least  one,  interview  with  her,  who  was  so  dear  to 
me  during  life.  But  I  failed.  She  has  revealed,  and 
does  reveal  herself  to  others.  She  has  not  chosen  to 
reveal  herself  to  me.  But,  somehow,  I  felt  that  there 
was  some  message  from  the  dead  awaiting  me  somewhere : 
and  one  day  I  discovered  a  heavy  oaken  door,  that 
seemed  so  solid  as  to  be  part  of  the  masonry,  and  I  pushed 
it  to.  It  revealed  a  long  narrow  passage,  at  the  end  of 
which  was  a  sunken  chamber;  and  in  that  chamber  I 
discovered  these,  the  last  sad  remnants  of  my  beloved.  I 
brought  them  home  with  infinite  care;  but  the  moment 
the  air  caught  them,  it  dissolved  them.  This  is  all  that 
remains;  but  I  assure  you,  my  dear  young  ladies,  I  would 
willingly  part  with  every  object  in  my  Oriental  collection 
in  the  hall,  rather  than  with  this  little  box.  But  here 
are  the  boys!  I  know  their  footsteps.  They  will  be 
greatly  pleased ! " 

And  folding  up  the  sacred  dust  and  carefully  tying 
the  box,  he  laid  it  away  in  the  cabinet,  which  he  locked. 

The  boys  rushed  into  the  hall,  rough  and  boisterous 
enough,  so  greatly  in  contrast  with  the  quiet,  sad  de- 
meanour of  their  father,  Dion  shouting: 

"I  say,  Pap,  did  Miss  O'Farrell  come?  Ah,  here  you 
are!     I  was  afraid  you'd  disappoint  us!" 

And  then  he  looked  shyly  at  the  stranger. 

"Miss  Liston,  Dion!"  said  Annie  O'Farrell. 


206  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Miss  Liston,  Jack!"  she  repeated;  and  the  two  lada 
shook  hands  with  some  reserve  toward  the  stranger. 

"Now,  before  the  twiUght  falls,"  said  the  father,  "you 
had  better  take  the  ladies  down  and  see  the  old  castle  —  " 

"But  I  want  some  grub,  Pap!"  said  Dion,  with  a  grin. 
"I'm  as  peckish  as  a  starved  crow!" 

"I'm  surprised  at  such  language  before  ladies,"  said 
his  father.  "Why,  Miss  O'Farrell,  I  can  hardly  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  pupil." 

"The  words  don't  come  into  our  Latin  lessons,"  said 
Annie,  with  a  smile.  "Perhaps  they  belong  to  some 
other  language?" 

"They  do!"  said  Dr.  Wycherly,  with  some  severity. 
"They  belong  to  the  language  of  slang,  which  young 
gentlemen  should  never  use  before  ladies.  Now,  Dion, 
curb  your  appetite,  until  you  have  done  the  honours  of 
the  place  to  your  visitors.  I  promise  3'ou  a  hearty  tea, 
and  plenty  of  pancakes  at  six  o'clock!" 

"Hurrah!  good  old  Pap!"  shouted  Dion.  "Come, 
Miss  O'Farrell,  come  Miss  Liston;  and  we'll  see  the  old 
castle  first." 

"Are  you  afraid?"  whispered  Mary  Liston.  "I  am. 
I  wish  we  were  back  for  the  pancakes." 

They  had  little  to  fear,  however,  for  never  were  fair 
ladies  escorted  by  such  gallant  cavaliers.  Dion,  although 
hungry,  was  in  boisterous  spirits.  Jack,  more  gentle, 
and  more  reserved,  seemed  rather  more  solicitous  about 
the  young  ladies'  dresses,  as  they  toiled  down  the  rough 
path,  strewn  with  brambles,  but  starred  with  yellow 
primroses,  that  led  to  the  castle.  Here  they  paused;  and, 
without  entering  the  premises  of  the  gypsy  family,  they 
mounted  a  rude  stone  staircase,  that  led  to  the  second 
story  of  the  building.  From  this  a  fine  view  was  had  of 
the  sea  in  front,  that  seemed  to  stretch  inimitably  for- 
ward to  the  southern  horizon;  and  to  the  west,  where  the 
coast  was  broken  by  all  the  jagged  lines  of  cape  and 
promontory. 

"Beneath  here,"  said  Dion,  "is  a  cave,  or  rather  be- 


A  VISIT  AND  A  PROPHECY  207 

neath  the  gypsy  room ;  and  you  can  hear  the  sea  bellowing 
and  groping  beneath  the  castle.  And  here  is  the  narrow 
bight  or  fiord  that  cuts  its  way  far  into  the  land.  Yonder 
is  the  Coast  Guard  Station;  and  I  guess  that  many  a 
glass  is  levelled  at  this  old  pile.     But  mum's  the  word!" 

They  went  higher  to  the  last  story,  which  was  unroofed, 
and  open  to  the  heavens,  although  the  walls  and  windows 
were  intact.  And,  as  they  stood  in  pairs,  gazing  at  the 
wondrous  scene  that  lay  before  them,  Jack  Wycherly 
whispered  to  Annie: 

"  You  won't  be  alarmed,  Miss  O'Farrell,  if  I  tell  you 
that  this  is  the  window  where  the  reputed  ghost  is  seen? 
We  have  no  faith  in  it,  Dion  and  I.  We  have  our  own 
suspicions.  But,  poor  Papa  believes  that  it  is  our  dear 
mother's  spirit  that  comes  back  to  visit  a  place  that  was 
dear  to  her.  We  don't  care  to  contradict  him.  It  would 
anger  him.  But,  we  think  it  is  all  a  fraud.  And  oh!  it 
is  so  horrible  to  think  that  our  dear  mother's  memory 
should  be  used  in  so  shocking  a  manner!" 

And  there  were  tears  in  the  boy's  eyes,  as  he  spoke; 
and  Annie,  turning  toward  him  in  the  waning  twilight, 
noticed  the  pinkish  pallor  of  his  face,  and  the  glitter  in 
too  luminous  eyes.  Fearing  to  ask  what  he  and  his 
brother  suspected,  she  thought  to  relieve  his  feelings  by 
asking  of  what  his  mother  had  died. 

"Of  consumption!"  he  said.  "Pulmonary  phthisis  is 
what  father  called  it.  She  caught  cold,  neglected  it, 
and  it  developed  into  that  disease.  But  it  is  very  chill 
here,  Miss  O'Farrell.     Let  us  go  down!" 

As  they  stepped  from  the  last  stone  on  to  the  gravel, 
they  were  met  by  the  tall  form  and  dark  face  of  Judith. 
She  was  by  no  means  an  ill-looking  woman;  but  there 
was  always  a  sinister  look  on  her  face,  that  was  furrowed, 
as  we  have  said. 

"Let  me  tell  your  fortune,  young  lady!"  she  said, 
holding  out  her  hand. 

Dion,  who  had  gone  up  the  hill  with  Miss  Listen, 
ahouted  down: 


208  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  Get  away  from  that  old  hag,  Miss  O'Farrell.  Jack, 
what  are  you  doing?" 

But  the  woman  clutched  the  girl's  arm,  who  shrank 
from  her  in  terror;  and  Jack  Wycherly,  seeing  her  anguish, 
struck  smartly  the  hand  of  the  old  witch. 

She  turned  on  him  angrily;  and,  then,  assuming  her 
usual  prophetic  look,  she  pointed  upward  to  the  castle, 
and  said: 

"The  spirit  of  your  mother  calleth  for  you  —  to  go 
to  her,  and  in  the  same  way." 

They  passed  from  her  in  silence,  oppressed  by  her 
manner  and  her  words.  When  they  entered  Rohira, 
there  was  a  tumult  of  voices.  The  eldest  brother,  and 
heir  to  Rohira,  had  unexpectedly  come  back  from  sea. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Comments  and  Confidences 

On  their  way  home  from  Rohira,  the  two  young  girls 
did  not  well  know  whether  they  ought  to  be  pleased,  or 
disappointed  with  their  visit.  The  weird  beauty  of  the 
place,  especially  in  the  setting  sun  and  in  the  after-twi- 
light and  in  the  moonlight,  seemed  to  haunt  them  with 
its  melancholy  splendour.  The  strange,  sad  figure  of  the 
old  doctor,  so  sane,  so  refined,  so  highly  trained,  so  fasci- 
nating, were  it  not  for  that  one  dark  line  of  the  mono- 
mania that  possessed  him,  almost  moved  them  to  tears. 
And  the  rencontre  with  that  wretched  old  woman  at  the 
castle,  her  assumed  majesty  of  mien  and  carriage,  her 
prophetic  words,  her  dark  visage,  seamed  with  lines  of 
passion,  would  have  made  Annie  shudder,  but  that  the 
unpleasant  recollection  seemed  to  have  been  obliterated 
by  one  still  more  unpleasant  —  that  of  the  sudden  and 
unexpected  advent  of  the  elder  member  of  the  family, 
whose  presence  apparently  was  not  too  well  desired. 

"It  spoiled  the  evening  on  us,"  said  Annie  O'Farrell, 
with  a  shrug.  "Why  didn't  he  come  yesterday,  or  the 
day  before,  or  to-morrow,  or  the  day  after  to-morrow? 
One  would  suppose  that  he  was  told  we  were  coming; 
and  that  he  arrived  just  in  time  to  spoil  our  amusement." 

"What  is  it,  I  wonder?  What  brought  him  home?" 
said  Mary  Liston. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Annie.  "But  from  what  the 
boys  hinted,  from  time  to  time,  I  suspect  he  has  failed 
in  his  examination  for  the  captaincy  of  a  vessel,  and  has 
given  up  the  sea." 

"Well,  but  after  all,"  said  her  friend,  "that  could 
15  209 


210  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

hardly  be  reason  enough  for  the  rather  cold  reception  he 
got,  especially  from  Dr.  Wycherly.  You  noticed  that 
the  kind  old  man  was  struck  silent  for  the  whole  evening." 

"  Yes,"  said  Annie,  inconsequently,  "  and  the  pancakes 
were  lovely." 

"So  they  were,"  said  Mary  Liston.  "And  weren't 
the  silver  and  ware  superb?  They'd  drive  Henry  wild 
with  jealousy." 

"  But  did  you  notice  that  there  was  a  want  of  tidiness 
somewhere?  I  suppose  we  shouldn't  make  remarks;  but 
I  think  I  see  a  woman's  hand  was  wanting." 

"He's  very  handsome?"  said  Mary  Liston. 

"Who?" 

"  The  prodigal  son.  I  suppose  he's  tanned  and  browned 
from  the  sea.     But  he's  decidedly  a  handsome  man." 

"Something  sinister,  though?" 

"Well,  n — no!  There's  not  the  space  of  the  eye  be- 
tween the  eyes,  which  is  the  sign  of  perfection;  but,  other- 
wise, he  is  a  type  of  manly  beauty." 

"  Oh!  but  we  forgot.  We  never  saw  the  acres  of  violets 
and  lilies-of-the-valley  and  hyacinths  —  the  very  things 
we  came  to  see ! " 

"I  can't  bear  hyacinths.  The  perfume  overpowers 
me." 

"I  love  the  daffodil  and  the  narcissus  for  themselves; 
and  because  they  cause  no  trouble." 

"Did  the  old  witch  tell  your  fortune?  We  saw  her 
catching  your  sleeve;  and  that  young  lad  trying  to  dis- 
engage your  hand." 

"No!"  said  Annie,  with  a  faint  blush,  happily  unseen 
in  the  dark.  "  But  she  '  assumed  the  god,'  and  prophesied 
for  poor  Jack." 

"Poor?  why  do  you  say  'poor,'  Annie?" 

"Because,  you  know,  the  young  lad  looks  delicate; 
and  —  and  —  that  old  beast  said  the  spirit  of  his  mother 
was  beckoning  unto  him." 

"She  meant  calling  him  away?" 

"Yes!"  said  Annie,  with  something  like  a  sob,     "Of 


COMMENTS  AND  CONFIDENCES  211 

course,  we  are  taught  not  to  believe  such  things;  and  I 
suppose  there  is  a  good  deal  of  trickery  and  deceit  about 
these  people.  But  somehow  it  oppresses  you,  doesn't 
it?" 

"I'm  afraid  it  does,"  said  her  friend.  "I  suppose 
'tisn't  right;  but  a  dream  will  haunt  me  for  days." 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  we  didn't  see  the  garden!  It  will 
mean  another  invitation,  and  another  visit,"  said  Annie. 

"But  won't  that  be  delightful?"  said  her  companion. 

"Delightful?  No.  I  shan't  like  it.  Do  you  know,  1 
fear  that  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night.  The  whole  thing 
has  given  me  a  shudder.  Did  you  ever  get  that  creepy 
feeling,  when  someone  is  telling  a  ghost-story?" 

"Often!"  said  Mary  Liston.  "It  gets  under  the  roots 
of  your  hair;  and  you  almost  feel  them  move!" 

"Yes!  that's  just  what  I  feel  about  Rohira,"  and 
Annie  gave  a  little  shudder,  and  drew  her  furs  closer 
around  her  neck. 

"Do  you  know  what  I  think,  Annie,"  said  her  friend 
after  a  long  pause.  "I  think  still  that  what  seemed 
wanting  here  was  a  woman's  hand.  The  ware  was  so 
lovely  —  antique  —  I'm  sure  it  was  valuable.  And  the 
silver  —  those  sugar-bowls  and  cream-ewers  were  solid 
silver,  not  electro-plate  —  I  saw  the  hall-mark  —  and 
did  you  notice  how  heavy  and  massive  they  were?  And 
the  spoons!  All  solid  silver.  I  suppose  he  stole  them 
from  some  Hindu  prince  —  " 

"  'Sh!"  whispered  Annie.     "The  doctor  is  a  good  man." 

"I  know,"  said  Mary  Liston.  "But  it  is  surprising 
what  good  people  will  do  under  temptation.  And  out 
there,  you  know,  I  heard  Henry  reading  something  about 
it,  the  West  India,  or  East  India  Company,  or  Society 
or  something,  thought  it  only  right  to  take  away  every- 
thing the  natives  possessed.  That's  what  makes  England 
so  rich  at  the  present  day." 

"  How  horrible ! "  said  Annie  O'Farrell.  "  But  you  may 
be  sure  the  poor  doctor  did  nothing  wrong.  He  is  so 
kind  to  the  poor,  I  hear  uncle  say,  and  so  charitable." 


212  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Perhaps  he  is  making  up  for  all  the  bad  things  he 
did  abroad?" 

"You  are  a  regular  little  infidel,  Mary  Liston!"  said 
Annie.  "  But  here  we  are?  Can't  you  stay  the  night  — 
uncle  will  be  so  pleased." 

"No!  I  promised  Henry  I  would  return,  and  he  would 
be  uneasy,"  said  Mary.  "  But,  Annie,  if  the  second  invi- 
tation shall  come,  and  it  will,  because  I  know  you  must 
see  those  gardens,  promise  me  that  I  shall  go,  too." 

"I  take  that  for  granted,"  said  Annie.  "And  this 
time,  I'll  secure  an  invitation  for  you.  Come  in  and  see 
uncle,  until  your  car  is  ready." 

Such  were  the  comments  made  by  two  innocent  school- 
girls on  their  little  adventure  that  evening.  Somewhat 
different  in  tone  and  temper  were  the  remarks  on  the 
same  visit  that  were  made  elsewhere  the  following 
day. 

The  Duggans  were  very  sore  and  bitter  since  the  day 
when  their  home  and  honour  were  both  alike  outraged  by 
the  visit  of  the  police.  The  charge  of  petty  theft  was 
intolerable  to  the  imagination  of  a  highly-strung  people, 
who  thought  little  of  a  hard  word  or  a  blow,  or  any  other 
act  of  violence.  And,  as  usual,  in  their  own  illogical 
fashion,  they  raged  against  the  very  man  who  was 
defending  them  against  the  vile  imputation.  In  these 
remote  and  thinly-populated  places  reports  travel  fast, 
and  very  simple  incidents  are  noticed  and  recorded. 
And  hence,  the  evening  of  Ash-Wednesday  had  not  closed 
in,  when  news  reached  these  people  that  Mr.  Reeves, 
chief  agent  and  organizer  of  the  Defence  Union,  had 
been  closeted  with  their  parish  priest  during  an  entire 
afternoon. 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Dick  Duggan,  angrily,  this  evening. 
"  He  has  gone  over,  body  and  bones,  to  the  inimies  of 
our  race  and  religion." 

"  Who  has  gone  over  to  the  inimies  of  our  race  and 
religion?  "  said  his  mother,  with  equal  anger,  facing  him 


COMMENTS  AND  CONFIDENCES  213 

with  that  fierce  scowl  under  which  the  bravest  of  her 
children  winced  and  quailed. 

"The  priesht!  The  parish  priesht!"  replied  Dick. 
"There's  the  evidence  'ud  convict  him  in  anny  coort  in 
Ireland.  When  he  brings  Reeves  all  the  way  from  his 
home  to  see  him,  do  you  think  'tis  for  nothin'?" 

"And  who  told  you,  you  blagard,"  said  his  mother, 
"that  it  was  the  priesht  brought  him,  instid  of  him  calling 
on  the  priesht?" 

"Him  callin'  on  the  priesht?"  echoed  Dick,  with  de- 
rision. "He'd  call  on  the  divil  sooner,  an'  you  know 
that.  Did  any  wan  ever  before  hear  of  a  landlord  callin' 
on  a  priesht,  without  being  axed?" 

"And  what  'ud  the  priesht  want  wid  him?"  asked  the 
mother,  lowering  her  tone  from  one  of  fierce  denial  to 
one  of  anxiety. 

"What  'ud  he  want,  but  to  set  him  on  us?  Sure  'tis 
plain  as  two  and  two  makes  four.  He  sinds  for  Reeves; 
he  tells  him  all  about  us;  and  Reeves  sends  for  the  police. 
Sure  anny  wan  wid  an  eye  in  his  head  can  see  that." 

"There's  no  use  argyfyin'  the  matter,  mother,"  said 
her  daughter,  breaking  in;  "they're  gone  over,  body  and 
sowl,  to  the  Prodestans.  Sure  them  two  fine  ladies  that 
kum  to  the  parish  lately  were  over  at  Rohira  last  night 
till  all  hours,  coortin'  and  gallivantin'  with  them  boys. 
Ned,  the  Captain,  has  come  home;  and  they  had  a  big 
party  to  meet  him." 

"Wisha,  faix  thin,  Ned  is  not  so  welkum  a  visitor  to 
Rohira,  that  they'd  care  to  have  a  party  to  meet  him. 
Who  told  you?" 

"Thim  that  seen  thim,  going  and  comin',"  said  her 
daughter. 

It  struck  the  poor  old  woman  dumb.  All  her  defences 
were  shattered.  Some  deep  Catholic  instinct  told  her 
that  there  was  a  mistake  somewhere,  and  that  the  priest 
was  wronged.  But  she  couldn't  see  her  way  out  of  the 
difficulty.  Reeves  calling  on  the  priest,  and  closeted  with 
him;  the  subsequent  visit  of  the  police  on  their  insulting 


214  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

errand;  and  the  entertainment  of  the  two  young  ladies 
at  Rohira  —  all  seemed  to  her  simple  mind  to  point  in 
one  direction,  namely,  to  the  abandonment  of  old  ways 
and  customs  on  the  part  of  the  priests,  and  the  implied 
betrayal  of  their  people. 

She  went  around  her  work  this  evening  in  a  sad  and 
angry  mood.  The  black  "  tea "  of  Ash- Wednesday  and 
the  total  absence  of  decent  food  hardly  improved  her 
temper;  but  she  could  say  nothing.  She  only  prayed  to 
God  to  enlighten  her,  and  to  clear  up  the  mystery  for  her. 

Later  on  they  were  gathered  round  the  humble  supper- 
table  near  the  square  of  glass  that  served  as  a  window. 
The  men  too  missed  the  milk  that  accompanied  the  usual 
supper  of  potatoes.  They  had  to  eat  the  home-made 
bread  dry,  and  the  potatoes  dry  except  for  a  little 
"dip,"  made  of  flour  and  water;  and  the  "black  tay" 
that  succeeded,  tasted  acrid  and  unwholesome  in  their 
mouths. 

These  things,  apparently  trifling,  do  not  much  improve 
the  Christian  temper;  and  the  old  man  and  the  "boys" 
were  smoking  furiously  in  the  inglenook  near  the  hearth 
to  get  back  their  equanimity,  when  the  sheep-dog,  that 
had  been  sleeping  under  the  table,  roused  himself  and 
barked;  and  the  next  moment,  a  tall,  handsome  figure 
burst  into  the  kitchen. 

"God  save  all  here!"  he  said,  cheerily.  "How  are 
you,  Duggan?  and  the  mistress?  Is  this  Dick?  And 
Jerry?  Why  it  seems  only  yesterday,  since  I  left  you  all 
behind." 

The  family  was  taken  by  surprise;  but  they  soon  recog- 
nized Edward  Wycherly,  the  eldest  son  of  the  old  doctor, 
and  the  future  heir  of  Rohira. 

"Oh!  Master  Ned,  is  that  you?"  said  the  master  of  the 
house.  "We  hard  you  kum  home;  and  sure  all  the  nay- 
bors  are  glad  to  see  you." 

"And  I'm  glad  to  see  them,"  said  he,  taking  the  chair 
that  was  offered  him  by  the  young  daughter  of  the  house. 
"  When  a  fellow  is  knocking  around  the  world  in  all  sorts 


COMMENTS  AND  CONFIDENCES  215 

of  weathers,  and  meeting  all  sorts  of  queer  folks,  he  is 
glad  to  get  home,  and  amongst  honest  people  again." 

"I  suppose  you  saw  many  quare  things  while  you  wor 
abroad,"  said  the  old  man.  He  alone  ventured  to  speak, 
the  others  having  sunk  into  that  condition  of  observant 
silence  which  the  Irish  peasant  so  much  affects. 

"'Queer'  is  no  name  for  them,"  said  the  visitor,  taking 
out  a  silver  case,  and  lighting  a  cigar.  "It  would  take 
a  month  of  holidays  to  tell  all.  But,  how  are  ye  getting 
on  here?     What  kind  of  a  Shrove  had  ye?" 

"Divil  a  much!"  said  the  old  man.  "I  didn't  hear  of 
a  marriage  at  all  at  this  side.  There  wor  wan  or  two 
small  ones  over  at  Lackagh." 

" I  suppose  the  priests  are  too  hard  about  the  money?" 
said  Wycherly,  smiling. 

"That's  right.  Begor,  your  'anner  has  it  now,"  said 
Dick,  with  a  grin. 

"'Tis  a  lie  for  you,  you  blagard,"  said  his  mother, 
angrily.  "  You  know  in  your  heart  and  sowl  that  the 
priests  aren't  hard  on  the  people.  But,  faix,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Wycherly,  "the  wurruld  won't  plaze  the  young 
people  nowadays.  Nothin'  but  America  for  the  girls; 
and  the  bhoys  want  as  much  money  as  would  float  a 
ship." 

"And  the  ould  people  don't  want  to  give  it,"  said 
Dick  Duggan. 

"Thim  that  have  it,  don't,"  said  his  mother.  "Sure 
no  bhoy  now  is  married  under  forty  or  fifty;  and  the 
girls  are  thirty-five  or  forty  theirselves." 

"Then  I  have  no  chance,"  said  Wycherly,  in  such  a 
melancholy  fashion  that  all  burst  out  laughing. 

"Begor,  yer  'anner,"  said  Dick,  with  unusual  freedom, 
"we  hard  you  had  your  chice  of  two  fine  young  ladies 
last  evening.  Sure,  you  must  be  hard  to  be  plazed,  if 
the  parish  priest's  niece  and  the  curate's  sister  wouldn't 
plaze  you." 

Wycherly  smoked  in  silence. 

"Sure,  we  hard,"  said  Dick  Duggan,  continuing  his 


216  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

favourite  topic,  "  that  they  wor  specially  axed  up  to  meet 
yer  'anner." 

"Indeed?"  said  Wycherly,  drawing  in  and  closely 
scrutinizing  the  speaker.  "That  can  hardly  be,  as  I  was 
not  expected  home.  I  landed  at  Queenstown  yesterday, 
and  never  sent  even  a  wire  that  I  was  coming.  But  they 
were  both  nice-mannered  and  bright  young  ladies.  The 
parish  should  be  proud  of  them." 

"They  are!"  said  Dick  drily. 

"  By  the  way,  I  see,"  continued  Wycherly  after  a  pause, 
"  you  and  ourselves  have  got  a  new  neighbour.  How  long 
are  the  Slatterys  gone?" 

"Oh,  a  year  or  two,"  replied  the  father. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Wycherly,  opening  out  the  raw  sore 
that  was  festering  in  these  poor  peasants'  minds,  "they 
didn't  leave  you  the  place.  It  would  have  been  a  neat 
little  addition  to  your  farm,  which  is  really  too  small. 
Or,  one  of  the  boys  could  have  taken  it,  and  settled 
down  there,  and  brought  in  some  girl  with  a  piece  of 
money." 

"I  suppose  'twasn't  God's  will,"  said  the  mother, 
anxious  to  turn  the  conversation.  "  There's  a  man  there 
from  America.     Kerins  they  call  him." 

"Rich?"  said  Wycherly. 

"  Rich  as  a  Jew,"  was  the  answer.  Dick  Duggan  went 
out;  he  couldn't  stand  this. 

"I  wish  he  had  gone  somewhere  else,"  said  Wycherly. 
"I  hear  he  has  Emergency  men  minding  the  place.  I 
don't  like  that.  The  people  could  have  done  without 
these  fellows." 

But,  notwithstanding  his  friendly  tone  and  attitude, 
these  remarks  were  received  with  silence  and  suspicion. 
Nothing  will  ever  again  take  from  the  peasant's  heart 
the  dread  of  the  gentry. 

He  saw  it,  and  rose  up  to  go. 

"Well,  I  must  be  off,"  he  said,  throwing  the  end  of  the 
cigar  into  the  fire.  "  We'll  see  a  deal  of  one  another,  I 
hope." 


COMMENTS  AND  CONFIDENCES  217 

"Then  you're  not  going  away  to  say  agin?"  the  old 
man  asked. 

"No!"  he  replied.  "I  have  given  up  the  sea.  I've 
come  home  to  stay;  and  help  father  to  manage  Rohira." 

"An'  you'll  be  marryin'  and  getting  a  rich  wife,  plaze 
God!"  said  the  old  man. 

"I  haven't  made  much  headway  with  the  ladies  as 
yet,"  he  said,  laughing.  "At  least  our  two  visitors  of 
last  evening  seemed  to  take  me  for  a  pirate,  who  had  just 
hauled  down  the  black  flag  from  his  masthead.  They  ran 
when  I  came  in,  and  that's  a  bad  sign,  although  I'm  not 
such  a  bad-looking  fellow.  Am  I  now?"  he  said,  address- 
ing the  young  girl. 

She  turned  away  her  head,  and  said  in  a  low  voice: 

"I  have  seen  worse  sometimes!" 

"There's  a  compliment,  Mrs.  Duggan.  You  see  there's 
no  use.     I  can't  get  on.     But  good  evening  to  you  all!" 

"Banacht  lath!"  said  the  old  man. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Beast  and  the  Man 

After  a  whole  day's  solemn  meditation  made  on  an 
empty  stomach,  which,  according  to  the  Schola  Salerni- 
tana,  and  old  Cornaro,  and  other  reputable  authorities, 
is  the  first  condition  of  a  clear  head,  Henry  Listen  decided 
in  a  most  pragmatic  manner  that  he  was  justified  in  per- 
severing in  the  manner  of  life  he  had  now  assumed.  The 
solemn  abjurations  and  remonstrances  of  his  pastor  had 
disturbed  his  conscience  not  a  little,  especially  as  they 
seemed  to  be  the  sharp  echo  of  all  he  had  heard  in  college. 
Once  or  twice,  during  the  long  mental  struggle  on  that 
Ash-Wednesday,  he  had  almost  determined  to  rise  up 
and  commence  the  holy  season  and  a  new  life  by  making 
the  holocaust  of  all  these  worldly  books,  which  his  pastor 
so  warmly  recommended.  But,  when  he  stood  before 
his  bookcase,  and  saw  their  beautiful  bindings,  and  re- 
membered the  many  hours  of  pleasant  and  profitable 
recreation  they  had  afforded  him,  his  heart  sank,  the  tears 
came  into  his  eyes,  and  he  turned  away.  He  also  remem- 
bered that  once  in  England,  where  he  had  purchased 
these  books,  a  certain  visitor  one  day,  looking  over  them, 
exclaimed  in  a  tone  of  surprise: 

"What?  Goethe,  Novalis,  in  a  priest's  house!  This 
is  the  New  Era.  So  you  have  found  the  Secret,"  and 
then  murmured  absently:  "Rome  will  conquer  again. 
She  has  got  our  guns  at  last ! " 

And  finally,  he  thought  what  a  comparative  failure 
his  pastor  had  been  in  that  parish,  even  though  he  was 
reputed  to  be,  and  in  reality  was,  a  distinguished  and 
deeply-read  theologian, 

218 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  MAN  219 

"I'll  try  on  the  new  lines,"  said  Henry,  late  that  night 
"I'll  try  modern  methods.  If  I  fail,  I'll  fall  back  on 
the  old  lines  again." 

An  excellent  resolution ;  but  one  not  too  easily  carried 
out.  The  great  central  problem  appeared  to  be,  whether  it 
was  a  fact  that  a  new  spirit  had  come  into  Ireland;  and 
whether  the  priesthood  were  to  persevere  in  the  old 
methods  of  dealing  with  their  people,  or  adopt  new 
methods  more  in  accordance  with  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Father  Henry  Liston  decided  for  the  latter,  regardless 
of  the  consequences  to  himself. 

The  first  indication  of  his  new  resolution  was  his 
throwing  himself,  as  it  were,  into  the  hearts  of  the  people. 
Whilst  his  great  pastor  kept  "aloof  and  aloft,"  admin- 
istering his  parish  in  strictest  accordance  with  canon 
law  and  tradition,  Henry  Liston  came  down  to  their 
level,  became  one  of  themselves,  spoke  to  them  familiarly, 
cried  with  their  sorrows,  and  laughed  with  their  joys. 
His  pastor  immediately  noticed  it,  and  warned  him. 
Going  home  one  morning  from  the  Lenten  stations,  he 
read  him  a  homily  on  the  manner  in  which  he  had 
addressed  the  people  that  morning. 

"  It  was  altogether  too  famihar,"  he  said.  "  It  is  right 
to  be  plain  and  simple;  but  you  mustn't  degenerate  into 
a  familiarity  that  makes  the  people  smile  at  such  sacred 
things.  And  it  is  all  right  to  use  homely  illustrations; 
but  that  story  of  the  fox  this  morning  was  simply  an 
outrage  on  all  religious  decency.  Try  and  maintain 
some  dignity.  Father  Liston,  The  people  will  think 
more  of  you  in  the  long  run.  And,  by  the  way,"  he  con- 
tinued, "you  must  give  up  the  habit  of  addressing  people 
by  their  Christian  names.  You  have  no  right  to  call 
people  with  whom  you  have  had  so  little  acquaintance, 
'Mary,'  or  'Kate.'     They  don't  like  it." 

The  allusion  to  the  "fox"  story  originated  thus.  A 
few  days  previous  to  this  Station,  when  the  pastor,  after 
having  hastily  swallowed  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  morsel  of 
dry  bread,  had  departed,  and  the  few  farmers,  who  had 


220  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

been  patiently  waiting  at  the  kitchen  fire,  came  in  to 
breakfast,  the  young  curate  remained,  anxious  to  make 
their  acquaintance.  And,  under  the  sunny  and  welcome 
absence  of  the  pastor,  and  the  cheerful  greetings  of  the 
curate,  and  the  prospect  of  getting  a  fairly  good  Lenten 
breakfast  for  nothing,  the  good  people  relaxed  a  little, 
and  finally  let  themselves  go. 

In  a  country-house  like  this,  the  conversation  invari- 
ably turns  on  one  of  two  topics,  fox-hunting  and  politics. 
The  ways  of  Reynard  and  the  ways  of  the  politician  seem 
to  have  a  peculiar  fascination  for  the  Irish  peasant;  and 
they  take  the  keenest  delight  in  narrating  the  tortuous 
methods  of  securing  an  election,  even  to  a  country  dis- 
pensary, on  the  one  hand,  or  the  Machiavellian  tricks 
of  the  fox  on  the  other.  And  they  laugh  at  their  own 
losses  from  either  side.  This  morning,  the  politicians 
were  left  in  peace,  although  it  was  a  sore  trial  to  some  to 
abstain  from  criticising  public  men;  and  the  conversation 
turned  on  the  coolness  and  dexterity  and  honesty  and 
fidelity  of  the  fox.  For,  like  most  much-maHgned  persons, 
that  poor  animal  has  certain  virtues  of  its  own,  which, 
however,  are  feebly  recognized  by  an  unjust  and  undis- 
criminating  public. 

"There  never  yet  was  a  more  belied  poor  crachure, 
yer  reverence,  than  a  fox,"  said  a  stout  young  farmer, 
his  mouth  well  crammed  with  a  junk  of  home-made  bread. 
"I  knew  a  poor  widda  wance,  that  lived  near  a  cover. 
She  had  the  finest  flock  of  geese  and  turkeys  in  the  coun- 
thry.  And,  although  she  was  a  widda,  and  the  fox 
knew  it,  he  never  tetched  as  much  as  a  fedder  on  thim 
fowl.  There  they  were,  crowing  and  cackling  and  sailin' 
over  the  pond  under  his  nose,  and  he  never  even  looked 
at  'em.  But  one  winter  came  in  very  cowld,  and  the 
country  was  snowed  up  all  round.  And  the  fox  got 
hungry.  And  agin  his  conscience,  and  though  he  knew, 
as  well  as  you  or  me,  that  he  was  committing  sin,  he  de- 
scinded  one  cowld,  awful  night  on  the  widda's  yard,  and 
tuk  away  wid  'im  wan  of  her  finest  bins.     She  cried  Mille 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  MAN  221 

murther!  whin  she  diskivered  in  the  morning  wan  of  her 
best  hins  gone ;  and  you  may  be  sure  she  cursed  that  poor 
fox  as  hot  as  if  he  wor  a  Christian.  But  he  didn't  mind 
—  not  a  bit.  The  weather  cleared  up  a  httle  thin.  And 
wan  fine  morning,  whin  the  widda  kem  out  to  count  her 
chickens,  she  found  she  had  two  too  manny.  '  Yerra  who 
owns  thim?'  sez  she  to  herself.  'Thim  aren't  mine.' 
Just  thin  she  looked  up,  and  there  was  Mr.  Fox  going 
away,  jest  like  a  gintleman,  without  waiting  to  be  thanked. 
And  the  quare  thing  was  that  it  was  just  the  colour  and 
breed  of  the  hin  he  ate,  that  he  brought  back  agin!" 

"I  hard  much  the  same  of  the  ould  huntsman  that 
used  live  over  at  Longueville,"  said  an  ancient  and  griz- 
zled old  farmer.  "  He  had  a  hole  dug  near  the  fire-place, 
and  he  made  a  nate  cover  for  it  out  of  an  ould  millstone; 
and  whenever  the  fox  was  hard  pressed  he  made  for  that 
cover;  and  they  never  caught  him.  But  he  wasn't  goin' 
to  be  in  anny  wan's  debt.  He  robbed  and  stole  every 
hen  roost  around  the  country ;  and  begobs  the  ould  hunts- 
man never  wanted  a  fowl  in  his  pot  so  long  as  he  had 
such  a  provider." 

"But  it  wasn't  honest,"  said  Henry  Liston,  who  was 
shocked  at  such  vulpine  and  human  depravity. 

"Which,  yer  reverence  —  the  fox,  or  the  huntsman?" 
said  the  historian, 

"Of  course,  the  man,"  said  Henry.  "The  fox  is  irre- 
sponsible —  he  doesn't  know  better." 

"God  help  yer  reverence,"  said  the  farmer.  "He 
knows  he's  doing  wrong,  the  villain  —  but  sure,  he  thinks 
'tis  right  to  recompense  his  friend.     And  sure  it  is." 

"But  the  man  ought  to  stop  such  depredations,"  said 
Henry. 

"  How,  yer  reverence?"  was  the  query.  And  all  looked 
up  to  witness  the  discomfiture  of  the  young  priest.  That 
"how"  was  a  poser. 

"He's  not  always  as  honest  as  that,"  said  another 
guest.  "He  always  has  an  eye  on  the  eleventh  com- 
mandment ;  but  sure  in  that  he's  only  like  the  rest  of  the 


222  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

world,  'Meself  first,  and  the  rest  nowhere,'  is  his  re- 
ligion; and  'tis  the  religion  of  many  besides  him.  I  wint 
in  wan  fine  mornin',  it  might  be  four  or  five  years  ago, 
to  take  a  look  at  the  barn  to  see  how  things  wor  goin'. 
And  lo!  an'  behold  you,  there  wasn't  a  hin  or  a  turkey 
alive;  and  herself  had  the  natest  lot  of  young  turkeys 
for  the  Christmas  market  wor  ever  seen.  Me  eyes  sprod 
in  me  head;  and  I  was  just  beginnin'  to  curse  and  blasht 
the  thief,  whin  there  in  the  middle  of  thim  was  himself, 
as  dead  as  a  dure  nail.  I  let  fly  wan  or  two  soft  words 
at  'im;  and  thin  I  wint  over  and  took  the  vally  of  the 
fowls  out  av  him  in  kicking.  After  a  while  I  got  ashamed 
of  kicking  a  dead  brute,  so  I  caught  him  by  the  brush, 
and  flung  him  out  into  the  dunghill.  I  wint  in  thin  to 
call  out  the  dogs;  and  out  they  kum,  yelpin'  and  barkin', 
like  mad.     But  there  was  no  fox!" 

"What  happened?"  said  Henry  innocently. 

"Begor,  'tis  aisy  to  guess  what  happened,"  said  the 
narrator.  "  He  was  shamming  death.  He  got  in  through 
a  high  winda,  I  suppose,  intindin'  to  take  one  fowl  for 
his  supper,  and  no  more.  But,  like  ourselves,  wan  crime 
led  to  another,  and  whin  he  found  he  could  not  get  out, 
there  was  nothin'  fur  him  but  to  massacray  thim  all,  an' 
himself  into  the  bargain." 

"  He  wasn't  as  cute  as  the  fellow  that  got  into  my  yard 
a  few  months  ago,"  said  a  rival.  "The  same  thing  hap- 
pened to  my  boy-o ;  he  got  in  through  a  high  winda,  and 
couldn't  get  out.  So  he  killed  all  before  him;  and  thin 
he  gathered  them  all  ondher  the  high  window  where  he 
kem  in.  We  wor  huntin'  and  scourin'  the  counthry  for 
the  fowl  whin  it  struck  me  that  they  might  be  here.  So 
I  opened  the  dure,  an'  in  I  wint.  There  they  wor,  as 
dead  as  Julius  Saysar;  but  no  trace  of  me  fox.  I  wint 
over,  and  stooped  down  to  count  thim;  and  faith,  it 
wasn't  me  prayers  I  was  sayin.'  I  took  up  wan,  and 
just  thin,  I  felt  somethin'  lep  on  me  back;  and  out  wint 
Mr.  Fox  through  the  winda." 

"There's  no  ind  to  him,"  was  the  verdict;  but  Henry 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  MAN  223 

Listen  took  away  with  him  not  only  the  conviction  that 
the  fox  was  a  highly  intelligent  animal,  and  therefore 
deserving  of  every  respect;  but  that  he  had  also  certain 
homely  virtues,  such  as  fidelity  and  gratitude,  which  do 
not  always  accompany  acuteness  and  cleverness  in  his 
human  friends.  But  he  noticed  that  these  redeeming 
features  were  forgotten,  and  nothing  remembered  but 
the  baser  qualifications  in  man  and  brute. 

A  few  mornings  after  he  had  been  entertained  with 
the  "fox,"  he  had  an  instance  of  what  the  higher  and 
nobler  being  can  do.  The  conversation  had  turned  this 
morning  on  the  prevalence  of  bribery  at  elections;  and 
the  general  conviction  appeared  to  be  that  every  man 
had  his  price,  and  that  there  was  no  office,  no  matter 
how  great  or  how  small,  that  was  not  sought  for  and 
obtained  by  intriguing,  cunning,  and  bribery. 

"They  may  say  what  they  like,"  said  one  of  the  guests, 
"about  gettin'  the  best  man  for  this,  that,  and  the  other 
thing;  but  'tisn't  the  best  man,  but  the  longest  purse 
that  wins.  But  I  hard  some  time  ago  a  shtory  that  bangs 
Banagher.  A  widda,  and,"  he  looked  around  to  see  if 
he  was  compromising  himself,  and  then  he  went  on,  "  and 
sure  widdas  are  the  divil,  —  had  a  son,  who  she  thought 
would  look  nice  in  a  dispensary.  So  she  brought  the 
bouchal  home  from  England,  and  ran  him.  People  said 
that  she  bribed  right,  left,  and  front;  but,  begor,  if  she 
did,  some  other  fella  had  a  longer  purse,  and  her  boy 
was  bate.'' 

"An'  she  lost  all  her  money?"  some  one  exclaimed. 

"Did  she?"  said  the  speaker.  "Didn't  I  tell  ye  she 
was  a  widda?     Didn't  I?" 

"  You  did,"  was  the  reply. 

"Thin,  how  could  she  be  bate?  She  wasn't,  faix.  But 
she  bate  the  whole  Boord  of  Guardians  hollow.  She 
bribed  by  cheque.  Thim  that  had  cashed  her  cheque,  and 
took  the  money,  she  had  thim  caught;  for  there  was  her 
evidence  agin  thim,  and  it  meant  two  years'  imprisonment. 
They  were  glad  enough  to  pay  her  back.     Thim  that 


224  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

held  the  cheques,  she  blocked  thim  by  stoppin'  the  cheques 
m  the  Bank,  and  they  were  glad  enough  to  give  'em  back, 
too." 

"  But,  sure,  she  was  caught  herself  in  the  bribing? " 

"Av  coorse  she  was;  -but  what  did  she  care?  They 
weren't  goin'  to  inform  on  a  'uman;  and  faix,  she'd  go  to 
gaol  willingly  enough,  if  she  could  sind  twenty-two 
Guardians  before  her." 

All  of  which  was  received  with  an  uproarious  laugh  as 
the  climax,  apogee,  and  perfection  of  all  human  cuteness. 

It  made  Henry  Liston  reflect  a  little,  and  preach  his 
little  homily  on  vulpine  and  human  depravity,  with  the 
result  that  he  elicited  a  broad  grin  from  his  audience, 
and  a  severe  homily  from  his  pastor. 

But  it  made  him  reflect;  and,  as  we  have  said,  his  re- 
flections were  helped  a  good  deal  by  the  abstinence  of 
Lent.  The  conviction  now  began  slowly  to  dawn  on  his 
mind  that  somehow  the  people  had  got  off  the  track. 
The  "ould  dacency"  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much 
from  his  mother  had  gone.  The  people  were  beginning 
to  be  ashamed  of  nothing  but  failure  —  that  of  which 
they  had  the  least  reason  to  be  ashamed.  They  were  no 
longer  ashamed  of  foul  trickery,  of  base  dealings  with 
one  another,  of  shady  and  doubtful  acts,  which  would 
have  kept  away  whole  families  from  Mass  a  few  years 
ago.  It  had  passed  into  an  article  of  religion  now,  that 
the  whole  business  of  life  was  to  succeed,  no  matter  by 
what  means.  The  nation  seemed  to  have  put  its  honour 
in  pledge,  or  in  its  pocket;  and  all  the  lofty  idealism,  all 
the  consecrated  and  time-honoured  traditions,  that  had 
so  distinguished  the  race  in  the  past,  were  now  deliber- 
ately rejected  with  rude  jokes  and  low  pleasantry;  and 
all  the  lower  and  baser  motives  of  self  and  success  were 
adopted  as  an  ethic  and  a  religion. 

Henry  Liston  was  young  and  the  vast  enthusiasm  of 
youth  had  not  yet  degenerated  into  cynicism  through 
a  sense  of  hopelessness  and  failure.  It  is  a  grand  thing 
to  see  these  young  lads  come  forward,  hope  shining  in 


THE  BEAST  AND  THE  MAN  225 

their  eyes,  and  courage  driving  the  pulse-beats  of  martial 
ardour  through  brain  and  muscle  and  nerve.  You  dare 
not  speak  to  them  of  degeneracy  and  national  apostasy 
and  a  gray  and  gloomy  future.  They  admit  there  are 
faults,  and  symptoms  of  decay,  and  a  loosening  of  bonds, 
and  the  gray  ashes  of  a  dead  patriotism.  But,  what 
are  they  there  for,  these  young  priests,  but  to  eliminate 
those  faults,  and  arrest  that  decay,  and  tighten  those 
bonds,  and  blow  those  gray  ashes  into  a  flame  that  will 
warm  and  lighten  all  the  land?  Yes,  that  is  their  duty; 
for  that  the  holy  oils  were  rubbed  on  their  palms  and 
fingers  by  consecrating  prelates;  and  for  this  they  have 
to  labour  and  toil  and  expend  themselves  and  die,  if  needs 
be,  in  the  struggle.  Of  what  consequence  to  humanity, 
thought  Henry  Liston,  is  it  whether  Ideas  are  innate  or 
acquired;  why  an  Archangel  and  not  one  of  the  Thrones 
or  Dominations  was  sent  to  announce  the  awful  m3^stery 
of  the  Incarnation?  There  are  more  pressing  questions 
for  solution  now.  And  he  made  up  his  mind,  after  the 
first  round  of  stations,  that  his  pastor,  over  there  in  his 
library,  blinding  his  eyes  over  the  perplexities  of  abstract 
problems  that  never  would  be  solved,  might  be  a  pictu- 
resque object  as  a  lonely  and  solitary  student.  But  the 
age  needed  somewhat  more.  In  fact  what  the  age  needed 
was  —  himself! 

It  was  the  springtime,  too;  and  under  its  invigorating 
influence  the  life-blood  was  pouring  hot  into  his  brain; 
and  every  faculty  was  kindling  into  a  stream  of  fresh 
energies  and  hopes,  and  resolutions.  The  thrushes  were 
tolling  out  their  bell-peals  from  every  bush  and  thicket, 
and  the  smaller  songsters  were  chirping  and  love-making 
with  their  little  lyric  voices  down  along  vale  and  hollow  and 
even  in  the  bitter  salt-marshes  of  the  sea.  There  was  a 
warm  perfumed  breath  from  Nature's  teeming  bosom  on 
the  air;  and  all  the  senses  were  flattered  into  new  pleasures 
by  the  ever-varying  potencies  of  Nature  in  her  new  birth. 
And  the  young  priest  felt  the  vivifying  influences  all 
around  him;  and  he  thought  he  should  shake  off  the  torpor 
16 


226  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

of  winter,  and  infuse  into  the  sordid  breasts  of  these  poor 
peasants  some  new  principles  and  motives  for  their  life- 
conduct.  So  he  sat  down  and  wrote  rapidly,  for  the 
thoughts  were  burning  in  his  brain,  a  sermon  that  was 
long  after  famous  in  the  parish,  and  which  he  called  "  The 
Man  behind  the  Gun." 

The  idea  was  taken  from  what  had  occurred  in  one  of 
those  delicious  struggles,  which,  notwithstanding  Hague 
Conferences,  Angels  of  Peace,  etc.,  etc.,  seem  to  be  part 
and  parcel  of  the  Human  Drama,  just  as  dangerous 
humours  in  the  human  body  break  out  into  hot  eruptions, 
or  take  the  more  deadly  form  of  low  fever.  And  Henry 
drew  a  graphic  picture  of  the  two  hostile  armaments, 
equal  in  armour-plating,  size  and  weight  and  calibre  of 
guns,  etc.,  approaching  each  other  silently  on  Pacific  or 
other  seas,  until  the  first  shot  shrills  out;  and  in  a  few 
hours,  one  fleet  is  reduced  to  old  scrap-iron  on  the  floor 
of  the  sea,  or  towed  captive  into  some  hostile  harbour; 
and  the  other,  uninjured  walks  the  waters  with  flags 
flying  and  captured  ships  in  its  wake.  Now,  where  lies 
the  difference  here,  quoth  Henry.  Equal  in  armament, 
equal  in  guns,  equal  in  magazines  —  the  one  is  shattered, 
the  other  triumphant?  What  was  the  magic  factor? 
Clearly,  the  man  behind  the  gun!  And  the  moral  of  the 
sermon,  elaborately  drawn  out  and  embellished,  is  the 
well-known  and  hackneyed  one  —  that  what  we  want  in 
Ireland  is  not  measures,  but  men !  Henry  Liston,  youth- 
ful and  enthusiastic,  thought  the  discovery  unique  and 
original.  Alas !  has  it  not  been  the  theme  of  every  essay, 
poem,  political  dissertation,  philosophic  conjecture,  for 
the  past  thousand  years?  And  are  not  we  as  far  away 
from  the  solution  as  ever? 


II 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


Reminiscences 


So  thought  his  venerable  pastor,  who  read  him  a  homily 
on  the  subject,  to  which  Henry  listened  with  bowed  head 
and  burning  cheek,  but  with  a  decidedly  unconvinced  and 
unconverted  spirit. 

"Sit  down,"  said  the  grim  old  man,  pointing  to  the 
pillory.  "I  have  heard  of  this  sermon  of  yours,  and  I 
am  not  finding  fault  with  it,  except  to  say  that  I  think 
if  you  would  keep  steadily  insisting  on  and  explaining 
the  Ten  Commandments,  you  would  do  more  good  than 
by  'beating  the  air'  with  such  foolish  rhetoric.  But, 
rhetoric  is  always  the  bane  of  young  men." 

"Then  you  don't  agree  with  me,  sir!"  said  Henry, 
mildly,  "that  the  great  want  in  Ireland,  just  now,  is 
men  —  I  mean,  manly,  Christian  men,  strong,  straight- 
forward —  " 

"  Et  cetera,  et  cetera,  et  cetera,"  interposed  his  pastor. 
"  Yes,  I  agree  with  you  thoroughly.  Only  I  would  go 
further  and  say:  It  is  the  want  of  the  whole  world.  Why 
mark  out  Ireland?     Is  it  not  the  universal  necessity?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Henry.  "  But  I  think  'tis  a  mis- 
take for  us  to  be  speculating  on  the  universe,  instead  of 
looking  to  our  own  needs." 

"Now,  that's  good!"  said  his  pastor,  approvingly. 
"That  is  well  said.  What  remark  is  that  you  made  about 
putty-men?" 

"I  said,"  said  Henry,  somewhat  annoyed  to  find  that 
every  expression  had  been  so  carefully  noted,  "that  you 
cannot  build  a  house  of  putty-bricks;  and  you  cannot 
build  a  nation  of  putty-men." 

227 


228  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"That  is  admirable,  really  admirable!"  said  his  pastor; 
and  whether  he  spoke  sarcastically,  or  in  conviction, 
Henry  could  not  determine.  "But  no  one  contests  such 
a  plain  truth,  I  suppose?" 

"  No !  —  "  said  Henry  dubiously.  . 

"What  then?"  said  the  old  man  with  his  stern  logic. 
"Where's  the  need  of  repeating  such  a  truism?" 

"Because,"  said  Henry,  argumentatively,  "you  must 
show  the  want  to  have  it  supplied,  I  suppose." 

"  Quite  so,"  was  the  answer.  "  But  how  do  you  propose 
to  supply  it?" 

"By  preaching  it  in  season,  and  out  of  season,"  said 
Henry  boldly.  "  By  casting  scorn  on  all  that  is  base  and 
despicable,  and  turning  the  minds  of  the  people  to  higher 
things." 

It  was  a  pretty  piece  of  eloquence;  and,  as  it  merited, 
there  was  great  silence.  Soon  this  became  embarrassing; 
and  Henry  said,  with  some  hesitation  and  a  little  blush: 

"Ireland  seems  to  me  to-day  like  a  man  blindfolded 
in  sport,  trying  to  make  his  way  to  the  light,  by  catching 
at  everything  with  outstretched  hands." 

"A  pretty  simile!"  said  the  pastor,  taking  a  huge  pinch 
of  snuff,  and  then  handing  the  box  to  his  curate.  "  Ireland 
seems  to  me  to  be  Hke  a  flock  of  sheep,  rushing  pellmell 
over  a  precipice  into  a  muck-heap." 

"Don't  you  see,  my  dear  Henry,"  he  continued,  after 
a  pause,  "that  all  the  old  ideals  are  vanished,  and  they 
can  no  more  return  than  the  elves  and  fairies  that  used 
to  dance  in  the  moonlight?  All  the  old  grand  ideas  of 
love  of  country,  love  to  one  another,  the  sense  of  honour, 
the  sense  of  decency  —  all  are  gone !  Up  to  twenty 
years  ago,  in  some  way  those  ideals  were  there,  broken 
perhaps  and  distorted;  but  they  were  there.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  an  appeal  was  made  by  public  men  —  I 
won't  call  them  demagogues  or  even  politicians  —  to 
the  nation's  cupidity.  Instead  of  the  old  passionate 
war-cry,  Ireland  for  the  Irish !  they  sank  to  the  Socialistic 
cry.  The  land  for  the  People!    They've  got  it  now!    They 


II 


REMINISCENCES  229 

have  the  land;  and  they  fling  Ireland  to  the  devil.  Each 
man's  interest  now  is  centred  in  his  bounds-ditch.  He 
cannot,  and  he  will  not,  look  beyond.  He  has  come  into 
his  inheritance;  and  he  sends  his  mother  to  the  work- 
house ! " 

Henry  was  so  appalled  at  these  words,  and  they  bore 
so  sternly  on  all  the  experience  he  had  been  acquiring 
during  the  past  few  weeks,  that  he  could  only  say  faintly: 

"  But  surely,  sir,  it  was  a  grand  thing  to  win  back  from 
the  descendants  of  Cromwellians  and  Elizabethans  the 
soil  of  Ireland?  Surely  our  fathers  would  exult  if  they 
could  see  such  a  day!  There  never  was  such  a  radical, 
yet  bloodless  revolution!" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  his  pastor,  "  if  it  rested  there.  But 
you  see  the  appeal  to  the  nation's  cupidity,  and  its 
success,  have  hardened  the  hearts  of  the  people.  So 
long  as  there  was  a  Cromwellian  landlord  to  be  fought 
and  conquered,  there  remained  before  the  eyes  of  the 
people  some  image  of  their  country.  Now,  the  fight  is 
over;  and  they  are  sinking  down  into  the  abject  and 
awful  condition  of  the  French  peasant,  who  doesn't  care 
for  king  or  country;  and  only  asks:  Who  is  going  to  reduce 
the  rates?" 

"It  would  have  been  better  then  for  our  people  to 
remain  as  they  were?"  asked  Henry,  "with  rack-rents, 
tumbling  houses,  the  workhouse,  and  the  emigrant- 
vessel?  " 

"There  again  is  the  illogical,  capricious,  fickle  brain 
of  the  young  man  of  our  generation,"  said  his  pastor. 
"I  didn't  say  that.  When  will  you  young  men  learn 
the  value  of  words  and  their  meaning?  Look  at  that 
clock!" 

Henry  looked  up  to  where  a  plainly-mounted  clock 
was  moving  its  hands  slowly  forward  under  a  glass  shade. 

"Every  hour,"  continued  his  pastor,  "pushes  me  nearer 
my  grave.  It  is  not  pleasant.  I  would  rather  go  back  a 
little.  But  I  cannot.  If  I  were  to  put  back  the  hand  on 
the  dial,  would  it  lengthen  my  life?" 


230  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"No!"  said  Henry. 

"  In  the  same  way,"  said  the  old  man,  "  I  know  right 
well  that  it  is  useless  to  stop,  or  to  try  to  stop  the  progress, 
or  evolution,  of  a  nation.  It  is  part  of  the  eternal  on- 
wardness  of  things.  There  is  no  putting  back  the  hand 
on  the  dial.  But,  there  are  times  when  I  yearn  for  the 
grand  old  people  that  are  gone;  for  the  grand  old  ideas 
they  held  as  a  religion.  Perhaps  it  is  old  age,  and  I  am 
become  the  laudator  temporis  acti;  but,  whilst  I  am  not 
blind  to  the  follies  and  drawbacks  of  the  past,  I  cannot 
help  thinking  that  those  times  were  greater  than  ours." 

He  seemed  to  sink  into  a  reverie  of  memory,  and  Henry, 
touched  by  the  appearance  of  sentiment  in  this  stern  old 
logician,  who  breathed  syllogisms,  was  also  silent. 

After  a  long  interval,  during  which  the  young  curate 
saw  a  tender  light  creep  down  over  the  strong  features 
of  his  pastor,  the  latter  woke  up,  and  said,  in  tones  of 
unusual  tenderness: 

"I  remember,  when  I  was  a  young  curate  (it  was  in 
your  native  town),  I  was  summoned  one  wet  wild  night 
to  a  sick  call.  The  rain  was  coming  down  in  torrents, 
and  before  I  got  well  into  the  main  street  I  was  wet 
through.  As  I  was  passing  along,  I  heard  a  fine  manly 
voice  echoing  through  the  deserted  street;  and  I  soon 
came  upon  a  group  of  young  lads  who  were  gathered 
round  a  ballad-singer,  who  had  taken  up  his  position  in 
front  of  a  well-lighted  shop.  I  just  glanced  at  him  as  I 
was  passing;  and  something  about  him  struck  my  fancy. 
He  was  no  ordinary,  ragged,  impecunious  ballad-singer. 
That  was  clear  enough.  He  was  well  dressed;  and,  as 
the  gas-light  fell  on  his  face,  I  saw  that  he  was  a  Fenian 
emissary.  The  sharp,  clear-cut  face,  the  heavy  mous- 
tache, the  right  hand  sunk  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his 
coat,  his  erect  military  bearing,  left  no  room  for  doubt. 
I  slipped  into  a  shop  for  a  moment.  The  proprietoi 
came  down  to  interview  me.  I  said:  'Stop,  Tom,  a 
moment.  Don't  speak!  I  want  to  listen ! '  And  it  was 
well  worth  listening  to.     It  was  the  famous  song: 


REMINISCENCES  231 

See  who  comes  over  the  red-blossomed  heather, 
Their  green  bamiers  kissing  the  pure  mountain  air. 

Did  you  ever  hear  it?" 

"No!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "I  cannot  remember 
having  heard  it." 

"Of  course  not.     But  you  know: 

Roslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden." 

Henry  held  down  his  head.  Clearly,  he  was  never  to 
hear  the  end  of  that  unfortunate  poem. 

"Never  mind!"  said  his  pastor,  continuing.  "It  is 
only  another  sign  of  the  decadence  of  the  age.  But  I 
tell  you  'twas  a  grand  song,  and  it  thrilled  me  through 
and  through.  It  was  a  song  for  men,  the  men  you  are 
dreaming  about  now.  And  it  was  a  song  for  Ireland: 
every  line  breathed  freedom — the  freedom  of  the  moun- 
tain, and  the  glen,  of  the  moorland  and  the  ocean.  There 
in  that  dingy  shop,  I  saw  it  all  —  the  troops  under  their 
banners,  debouching  around  the  curves  of  the  mountains, 
and  swelled  every  moment  with  new  contingents  from 
every  hamlet  and  cabin;  their  captains  on  horseback; 
their  pipes  playing;  and  'Freedom  throned  on  each  proud 
spirit  there!'  It  was  all  a  dream,  of  course,  but  a  glori- 
ous dream.  And,  not  all  a  dream;  because  the  spirit  that 
breathed  from  that  man  seemed  to  have  infected  even 
the  children;  and  the  poor  little  beggars  spread  themselves 
out  into  vedettes  all  along  the  street  to  warn  the  '  Fenian' 
when  the  police  were  coming." 

There  never  was  a  more  surprised  individual  in  this 
world  than  Henry  Liston,  as  he  watched  with  awe  and 
tenderness  this  new  revelation  in  his  stern  and  sarcastic 
superior.  The  latter,  as  if  enchanted  with  the  memory 
of  things,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff  and  went  on : 

"A  few  nights  later,  the  moon  was  shining  full  upon 
one  of  the  glens  in  the  neighbourhood,  flooding  all  the 
off-side  with  light  but  leaving  the  wooded  side  in  complete 


232  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

darkness,  when,  getting  home  by  a  short-cut  across  the 
hills,  I  suddenly  stumbled  on  a  detachment  of  Fenians, 
who  were  being  drilled  in  tlie  wood.  The  place  was  so 
dark  I  would  have  passed  by,  not  seeing  them,  but  there 
again  was  that  strange  thrill  that  one  feels  in  the  presence 
of  something  hidden  and  ghostly.  And  I  could  just  hear 
the  shuffling  of  feet  and  the  suppressed  breathing  of  men. 
I  was  passing  on  rapidly  —  for  I  knew  they  would  not 
hke  to  be  detected,  even  by  me  —  when  I  was  suddenly 
challenged : 

'"Halt!  who  goes  there?'  —  'A  friend,'  I  said. — 
'Halt,  friend,  and  give  the  countersign!'  —  This  was 
awkward.  But  I  braved  it  out;  and  I  said  gaily:  'Sars- 
field  is  the  word;  and  Sarsfield  is  the  man!'  —  'Dat's 
not  the  countersign!'  said  the  voice^  which  I  now  recog- 
nized as  that  of  a  fellow  named  Jerry  Kinsella,  whom 
I  had  cuffed  well  at  his  Catechism  not  twelve  months 
before.  The  thing  now  was  awkward;  but  just  then  an 
American  officer  came  up,  and  challenged  me.  I  ex- 
plained. And  all  was  right  in  a  moment.  But,  as  I 
moved  away,  I  heard  Jerry  saying,  as  if  in  answer  to  a 
challenge :  '  Begobs,  if  it  was  any  wan  else,  I'd  have  run 
him  through.' 

"Now,  here  is  the  queer  part  of  the  matter.  I  knew 
all  these  fellows  well,  —  Jack  Carthy,  the  butcher;  Jem 
Clancy,  the  baker;  Joe  Feely,  the  carpenter  —  and  in 
ordinary  life,  made  little  of  them.  But,  somehow,  the 
fact  of  their  being  Fenians  threw  a  glamour  around  them 
in  my  mind's  eye;  and  I  never  after  met  them  in  the  ordi- 
nary walks  of  life,  but  I  looked  on  them  with  a  kind  of 
shy  respect.  It  was  the  idea  that  glorified  and  trans- 
figured these  poor  workmen  into  patriots.  When  I  had 
crossed  the  stream,  and  mounted  the  glen  on  the  other 
side,  I  stood  still  for  a  moment,  strangely  touched  by 
what  I  had  seen.  Looking  back,  I  could  discern  nothing 
beneath  the  dense  darkness  of  the  pine-wood.  But  just 
then,  there  pealed  out  from  the  heights  above  a  bugle 
call.     It  was  the  cavalry  call  of  British  soldiers  — 


II 


REMINISCENCES  233 

Come,  come  to  your  stables, 
My  boys,  when  you're  able, 
Come,  come  to  your  stables, 
My  jolly  dragoons ! 

"  It  sounded  for  all  the  world  to  my  ears  as  the  rallying- 
call  of  the  people;  and,  coupled  with  what  I  had  seen  in 
the  valley,  it  seemed  that  there  beneath  the  darkness 
were  gathered  for  conquest  and  victory  the  embattled 
legions  of  the  motherland.  I  heard  next  day  that  it 
was  only  a  bank  clerk  who  was  amusing  some  young  lady 
friends  with  a  cornet;  but  it  was  a  long  time  before  the 
imagination  let  go  the  fancy,  and  let  reason  reign  again." 

The  old  man  seemed  so  buried  in  the  past  that  Henry 
had  not  the  courage  to  bring  him  back  to  the  dolorous 
present.  But  he  well  understood  what  was  working  in 
his  mind. 

"Good  God!"  said  the  old  man  at  length,  "if  those 
fellows  were  alive  now,  what  would  they  be?  I  heard  all 
their  confessions  the  day  before  they  went  out  to  the 
rising.  Of  course,  I  saw  it  was  madness;  and  I  did  all 
in  my  power  to  stop  them.  But  I  couldn't.  There  was 
the  oath  binding  them  to  do  impossibilities.  But  it  was 
a  glorious  madness.  What  would  they  be  now?  Porter- 
drinking,  platform-storming  politicians,  murdering  one 
another  for  some  scoundrel  of  a  landlord  on  the  one  hand; 
or  some  equal  scoundrel  of  a  demagogue  on  the  other." 

"Well,"  the  old  man  continued,  "the  rising  came  off; 
and,  of  course,  it  was  a  miserable  fiasco.  The  men  had 
no  arms,  and  were  practically  undrilled.  They  fell  away 
at  once  before  organized  force.  And  yet,  because  the 
whole  thing  was  animated  by  an  idea,  it  was  great  and 
heroic.  Two  or  three  years  after,  I  happened  to  be 
dining  at  the  College  one  evening.  I  forget  now,  it  is 
so  long  gone,  what  took  me  there.  But  I  remember 
there  was  a  whisper  around  the  halls  that  an  ex-convict, 
a  Fenian,  —  one,  too,  who  had  been  sentenced  to  be 
hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered  —  had  been  asked  by  the 
great  bishop  to  dine  that  day.     I  believe  the  poor  fellow 


234  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

was  only  a  few  days  out  of  prison,  and  had  come  there  to 
see  his  sister,  who  was  a  Presentation  nun.  We  all  sat 
down  to  dinner,  the  priests  at  the  head-table  with  the 
bishop;  and  there  was  some  disappointment,  as  the  guest 
was  not  appearing.  Then,  the  door  opened  quietly;  and 
in  there  walked  a  small,  thin,  pale,  insignificant-looking 
man,  except  for  one  thing  —  you'd  never  guess?" 

"  I  give  it  up,"  said  Henry,  much  interested. 

"  Except  for  his  cropped  head.  The  gray  hair  was  only 
recovering  from  the  convict's  clip.  It  was  his  aureole  of 
honour;  his  nimbus  of  sanctity.  The  whole  assembly, 
bishop,  priests,  and  students,  stood  up,  as  if  they  had  an 
electric  shock;  and  clapped  and  cheered,  and  clapped  and 
thundered,  until  the  little  man  had  gone  over,  received 
the  bishop's  blessing  kneeling,  and  taken  his  place  at  the 
bishop's  right-hand.  It  was  a  great  ovation  and  a 
righteous  one.  The  man  was  the  representative  of  an 
idea;  and  that  idea  had  become  an  article  of  faith  to  us." 

The  old  man  paused,  as  if  trying  to  recollect  something. 
Then,  he  said  quietly,  but  with  bitter  emphasis : 

"I  believe,  some  time  ago,  an  attempt  was  made  on 
the  life  of  that  man  by  some  of  our  dear  fellow-country- 
men at  some  paltry  election.  What  the  English  law 
couldn't  do,  the  hands  of  Irishmen  tried  to  do.  Yes,  we 
are  becoming  a  practical  people." 

The  lesson  was  sinking  deeply  into  the  mind  of  the 
young  priest,  who  was  exceedingly  perturbed  by  all  that 
he  was  hearing  and  witnessing. 

"Clearly,  then,"  he  said  at  length,  "the  matter  stands 
thus.  Whilst  we  cling  to  a  great  idea,  we  make  no  pro- 
gress. When  we  do  progress,  we  lose  our  spirituality, 
—  our  great  dreams  and  ambitions.  Is  there  no  such 
thing  as  combining  the  two?" 

And  his  pastor  had  to  answer  sadly: 

"No!" 

"  You  have  no  faith  then,  sir,  in  the  new  Gaelic  League?  " 

"Old  age  is  not  the  time  for  faith  or  hope,"  said  the 
old  man.     "It  is  the  time  of  regret  for  lost  chances  and 


REMINISCENCES  235 

opportunities.  I  know  all  about  this  League.  But  just 
seel  They  are  bringing  back  the  letter  of  the  language; 
but  where  is  the  spirit  of  patriotism?  The  Gaelic  League 
has  brought  back  Cuchullin  and  Ossian,  and  Naomh;  it 
might  as  well  have  brought  back  Homer  and  his  Odyssey. 
But  by  throwing  the  thoughts  of  the  young  into  the  far 
perspective  of  years,  it  has  overleaped  the  present.  Nay, 
it  has  deliberately  blotted  out  the  whole  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  —  its  mighty  epochs,  '98,  '48,  and  '67;  and,  by 
the  scorn  it  has  cast  upon  what  it  is  pleased  to  call  Anglo- 
Irish  writers,  it  has  wiped  out  from  the  memory  of  men 
such  names  as  Grattan,  Flood,  Emmet,  Tone,  Davis, 
Duffy,  Mitchel,  Martin,  Kickham,  and  the  rest." 

"  You  are  giving  me  electric  shocks  this  morning," 
said  Henry  Liston  faintly.  "  You  are  upsetting  all  my 
beliefs  and  making  me  a  political  infidel." 

"Don't  take  all  I  say  for  granted,"  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  touching  absence  of  that  dogmatism  which  was 
an  essential  element  of  his  character  when  dealing  with 
theological  matters.  "I  am  old  in  years;  older  in  experi- 
ences. But  just  test  what  I  say!  Go  into  your  schools, 
where  the  children  are  learning  Irish.  Ask  them  to  sing 
one  of  Moore's  melodies  —  the  swan-songs  of  dying  Ire- 
land. In  vain.  Speak  to  them  of  Mitchel  or  Meagher. 
They  never  heard  such  names.  Ask  them  to  recite  '  Fonte- 
noy'  or  'Clare's  Dragoons.'  They  could  more  easily 
sing  a  chorus  from  Sophocles.  I  said  a  while  ago  that 
the  people  had  got  back  their  inheritance,  and  sent  their 
mother  to  the  workhouse.  They  are  now  getting  back 
their  language  to  ignore  all  that  was  noble  and  sacred 
in  their  history.  But,  you  see,  I  am  old.  Don't  mind 
me,  Henry!  Do  your  best  in  your  own  way.  I  am  old; 
and  I  cling  to  dreams  of  the  past.  I'd  rather  have  one 
strand  of  the  rope  that  hanged  these  poor  boys  over  there 
in  Manchester  than  all  the  'collars  of  gold'  which  the 
ancient  Irish  robbed  from  each  other  after  spoiling  the 
proud  invader." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

The  "Ghost"  in  Hamlet 

The  Easter  week  of  that  year  was  a  happy  week  for 
at  least  three  of  our  actors  in  this  little  drama.  Annie 
had  come  up  to  Athboy,  to  spend  the  Easter  holidays 
with  her  friend,  Mary  Liston.  They  were  recent  acquaint- 
ances ;  but  a  few  interchanges  of  opinion  on  dress  and  such 
like  subjects  had  ripened,  as  if  with  a  torrid  sun,  the 
acquaintance  into  a  fast  friendship.  After  a  few  days, 
they  could  open  out  the  recesses  of  their  most  hidden 
thoughts  to  each  other,  and  revel  in  that  spontaneous 
confidence  that  belongs  only  to  the  young. 

They  had  visited  Rohira  again  by  special  request  of 
Dr.  Wycherly;  they  had  seen  the  gardens.  They  had 
been  overwhelmed  at  first  by  the  sight  of  nearly  two  acres 
of  ground,  literally  covered  with  spring  flowers,  although 
large  quantities  had  been  shipped  away  to  the  London 
markets  by  steamers  that  called  and  hung  out  in  the 
ofhng  and  sent  their  boats  ashore,  or  availed  of  the  ser- 
vices of  Pete,  the  Gypsy,  who  was  quite  indifferent  whether 
he  carried  lobsters  or  orchids,  so  long  as  he  was  well  paid. 

Then,  after  such  a  surfeit  of  beauty  and  perfume,  these 
young  souls  fell  back  on  the  narrower  pleasure  of  the 
simple  bouquets  that  Dr.  Wycherly  forced  upon  them. 
For  to  some  souls  a  single  rose  speaks  more  eloquently 
than  a  tangled  forest  of  rose-trees;  just  as  we  watch  a 
single  planet  in  the  heavens,  and  are  blind  to  the  infinite 
suns. 

Edward  Wycherly,  the  returned  one,  and  the  unwel- 
come, was  particularly  assiduous  in  his  attention  to  the 
two  young  ladies;  and,  whilst  Henry  was  being  enter- 

236 


THE  "GHOST"  IN  HAMLET  237 

tained  by  the  Doctor  with  all  manner  of  strange  informa- 
tion about  Hindus  and  their  arts,  and  modern  diseases 
and  modern  science,  his  son  was  wrapping  the  senses 
and  imagination  of  the  two  young  girls  in  an  aromatic 
cloud  of  incense  from  garden  and  hothouse,  and  a  poetical 
cloud  of  Oriental  poetry  and  legend,  which  he  had  gathered 
in  his  travels. 

Yet,  the  verdict  passed  upon  him  there  during  the 
Easter  holidays  by  these  two  guileless  girls  was  not  al- 
together favourable.  Mary  Liston  declared  him  handsome; 
but  the  beauty,  she  thought,  was  of  a  sinister  kind.  Annie 
was  silent.  When  she  spoke,  she  declared  her  intention, 
with  all  her  usual  positiveness,  not  to  meet  him  again,  if 
it  were  at  all  possible.     And  so  he  was  dismissed. 

During  these  beautiful,  sunny  days,  and  in  the  long 
evenings,  it  was  quite  inevitable  that  those  three  young 
people  gathered  around  the  fireplace  should  discuss  many 
things  of  interest  to  themselves  and  others.  Henry 
Liston  hardly  knew  which  of  the  three  pleasures  he  pre- 
ferred—  reading  in  a  listless  way  there  by  the  fireside, 
whilst  his  sister  and  her  young  friend  were  at  the  piano; 
or,  listening  in  a  dreamy  way  to  some  old  Irish  melody, 
quaint  and  weird  and  lonely  as  the  winds  that  were 
sighing  around  the  house,  or  some  modern  study,  fantasie, 
or  nocturne  from  a  foreign  master;  or  debating  with  those 
keen  young  intellects  the  eternal  question,  What  is  to 
be  done  for  Ireland?  For  there  is  the  problem  that  is 
ever  uppermost  in  the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  young. 
The  old  have  despaired  of  the  solution,  and  are  now  spec- 
tators. But  the  young  are  forever  dreaming,  and  the 
things  that  people  their  dreams  seem  to  be  ever  flying, 
like  flocks  of  birds,  down  the  long  vistas  of  hope. 

On  one  point  there  seemed  to  be  absolute  and  perfect 
agreement  —  the  necessity  of  infusing  some  brightness 
into  the  homes  of  the  people,  of  turning  a  little  sunshine 
and  music  into  the  dreary  and  silent  monotony  of  their 
lives. 

And  so  the  Easter  holidays  melted  into  May;  and  the 


238  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

May  blossoms  fell,  and  the  burning  suns  of  June  and  July 
turned  everything  into  gray  gold.  And  August  and 
September  came  on  with  their  russet  mantles  and  the 
rich  fruitage  of  the  year.  And  the  days  closed  in,  as 
the  leaves  fell  in  mellow  October.  But  the  idea  was 
always  haunting  the  mind  of  Henry  Liston  that  he  was 
bound  to  brighten  the  sombre  lives  that  fretted  away 
into  the  grave  in  a  still  and  gray  monotony  of  labour  and 
anxiety;  and  he  determined  that  during  the  winter  he 
would  not  only  establish  the  Gaelic  League  in  his  parish, 
in  spite  of  the  melancholy  forebodings  of  his  pastor;  but 
he  would  further  enliven  things  in  general  with  a  series 
of  concerts,  plays,  etc.,  that  would  be  instructive  and 
amusing  to  his  people. 

During  these  months,  however,  a  few  things,  of  some 
moment  to  our  chief  actors,  did  occur.  Edward  Wych- 
erly,  the  defeated  one,  did  persuade  his  father  to  remove 
the  boys  from  the  dangerous  atmosphere  of  the  priest's 
house;  and,  spun  and  plucked  at  his  own  exatnination, 
he  nevertheless  succeeded  in  getting  his  brother  through 
his  matriculation  in  the  autumn.  Jack  kicked  against 
the  arrangement  at  first;  but  was  obliged  to  yield  on  the 
compromise  that  Miss  O'Farrell  was  to  be  asked  occa- 
sionally to  visit  Rohira.  In  this  he  was  ably  and  enthusi- 
astically seconded  by  Dion.  The  heir-apparent  of  Rohira 
seemed  to  object;  but,  somehow,  he  managed  to  be  always 
present  when  Annie  O'Farrell  called. 

The  emergency-men  were  withdrawn  from  Kerins's 
farm;  and  Kerins  entered  into  an  offensive  and  defensive 
alliance  with  Pete  the  Gypsy. 

Judith  seemed  to  be  gaining  greater  power  over  the 
minds  of  the  people;  for  now,  eggs  were  found  in  greater 
abundance  in  the  furrows  of  the  gardens,  —  eggs  that 
would  not  break,  if  cast  into  the  flames,  but  glowed  like 
heated  iron;  and  on  the  door-posts  of  dairies  a  strange 
kind  of  grease,  like  that  which  is  used  in  railway-wagons, 
was  often  found  smeared,  and  frequently  a  mysterious  and 
unwholesome  meat  was  discovered  in  the  field.     All  these 


THE  "GHOST"  IN  HAMLET  239 

were  ancient  charms  and  spells,  under  the  name  pishogues 
well  known  to  the  people.  But  now  they  seemed  to  be 
everywhere;  and,  as  a  result,  the  milk  would  not  yield  an 
ounce  of  cream;  the  calves  perished  in  the  fields,  or  were 
born  dead ;  and  the  people  whispered  amongst  themselves 
in  low  accents  of  fear  and  apprehension.  Some,  the  more 
religious  and  godly,  feared  the  anger  of  God  had  descended 
on  the  parish  for  their  insubordination  toward  their 
pastor.  Some  thought  it  was  the  diabolic  influence  of 
Judith  that  was  working  ruin.  But  no  one,  not  even 
the  bravest,  would  approach  that  gray  old  keep  down 
there  by  the  sea-breakers.  Its  inhabitants  were  as  safe 
from  observation  as  if  they  lived  far  out  from  the  main- 
land. Only  one  seemed  to  watch,  and  ponder,  infidel  as 
he  was,  on  these  nocturnal  apparitions  of  the  Castle 
Spectre;  and  he  soon  made  up  his  mind  as  to  what  they 
portended.  Jack  and  Dion  Wycherly  were  incredulous, 
but  inquisitive;  but  Edward  Wycherly  took  a  closer 
interest  in  the  denizens  of  the  castle;  and  his  increasing 
interest  was  viewed  by  them  with  apprehension  and  hate. 

At  Athboy,  Mary  Liston  came  and  went  on  her  angel 
visits  from  her  home  in  the  town,  brightening  her  brother's 
solitary  life  with  her  sweet  presence,  for  brother  and  sister 
loved  each  other  dearly.  And  hence,  when  one  evening, 
after  a  protracted  absence,  Mary  Liston  came  up  from 
town,  and  asked  her  brother  to  walk  with  her  over  the 
cliffs,  Henry  felt  that  there  was  something  coming.  And 
there  was.  For  when  his  sister  had  explained  that  she 
had  made  all  arrangements  in  the  early  summer  to  enter 
at  the  beginning  of  the  approaching  autumn  the  convent 
where  she  had  studied,  Henry  felt  that  half  his  life  was 
cut  away,  although  he  dared  not  oppose  his  sister's  reso- 
lution. He  came  home,  and  took  his  tea  in  silence.  That 
was  all. 

Down  at  Doonvarragh,  the  old  pastor,  whilst  giving 
full  time  to  his  parochial  duties,  seemed  more  absorbed 
then  ever  in  his  theological  studies.  He  had  become 
somewhat  sceptical  about  human  things;  and  was  looking 


240  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

steadily  toward  the  divine.  He  had  mounted  the  de- 
clivities of  life;  and,  looking  back,  had  seen  its  utter  bar- 
renness and  waste.  His  eyes  were  turned  toward  the 
west,  where  the  sun  of  his  life  was  sinking  under  shining 
seas.  It  was  no  little  relief  to  him  when  those  evening 
tuitions  were  at  an  end.  He  knew  he  had  made  a  mistake, 
but  he  could  not  correct  it.  Circumstances  and  the  slow 
progress  of  events  settled  the  problem  for  him;  and  now 
he  could  revel  in  his  studies  without  the  uneasy  conscious- 
ness that  under  his  roof  was  a  practical  problem  that  per- 
plexed him.  But,  day  by  day  and  every  day  his  sight 
seemed  to  grow  dimmer.  Again  and  again  his  oculist 
changed  his  glasses.  This  gave  relief;  but  again  they 
began  to  fail  him,  and  he  had  to  procure  yet  stronger 
lenses.  One  day  he  asked  the  man,  was  this  cataract? 
The  answer  was,  I  wish  it  were!  which  implied  that  it 
was  something  worse,  and  probably  incurable.  Hence  he 
began  to  lean  more  and  more  on  the  help  of  his  young 
niece,  who  had  now  grown  into  his  heart.  The  feeling 
of  irksomeness,  which  her  presence  had  brought  into  his 
sohtary  life  in  the  beginning,  had  now  given  way  to  a 
feeling  of  dependence  upon  her,  so  he  almost  resented 
her  absence  during  the  visits  she  paid  to  her  young  friends 
at  Athboy.  As  for  Annie  herself,  there  was  creeping 
into  her  Hfe  an  undefined  sense  of  loneliness;  and,  except 
on  the  few  occasions  when  she  visited  the  Listons,  her 
young  years  were  sinking  into  a  drear  monotony;  and  she 
was  beginning  to  be  a  dreamer,  which  means  discontent 
and  unhappiness  at  one's  own  surroundings.  And  a 
few  times  she  found  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes,  and  she 
had  to  wipe  them  gently  away! 

As  the  days  narrowed,  and  the  nights  lengthened  in 
October,  Henry  Listen  decided  that  the  time  had  come 
to  commence  his  cherished  project  of  throwing  a  little 
light  and  music  into  the  hearts  of  his  people.  He  wrote 
to  a  valued  confrere  in  the  neighbouring  town  and  asked 
advice  and  assistance,  both  of  which  were  promptly  given. 
This  experienced  purveyor  of  instruction  and  amusement 


THE   "GHOST"  IN   HAMLET  241 

recommended  that  the  academical  session  at  Athboy  or 
Lackagh  should  commence  with  something  "stunning," 
in  order  to  stimulate  the  flagging  energies  of  the  people. 
Hence  he  pooh-poohed  a  mere  concert,  and  rather  hum- 
bled Henry  Liston  by  throwing  scorn  on  a  gramophone 
entertainment  which  Henry  had  humbly  suggested.  In- 
stead of  such  juvenile  things,  "  fit  only  for  school  children," 
he  said,  he  proposed  to  send  up  his  own  Dramatic  Corps 
of  the  Young  Men's  Society,  all  picked  men,  and  capable 
of  every  kind  of  histrionic  engagement.  These  young 
Keans  and  Kembles  had  advanced,  by  leaps  and  bounds, 
from  "Pizarro;  or  the  Conquest  of  Peru"  to  the  "Lady 
of  Lyons";  and,  lately,  spurning  everything  dramatic  that 
did  not  come  from  the  highest  genius,  they  had  given 
with  marvellous  success,  and  for  three  nights  running, 
"Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark,"  of  which,  he  hinted, 
Henry  had  perhaps  heard.  He  could  send  the  whole 
troupe,  except  the  "Ghost."  This  being  a  minor  part, 
it  could  be  supplied  by  a  local  artist.  The  properties, 
dresses,  scenery,  he  recommended,  should  be  procured 
from  the  Theatre  Royal;  but  he  would  manage  all  that. 
The  expenses  would  be  trifling.  A  few  little  items  for 
car-hire,  refreshments,  etc.  The  balance  of  profits  could 
be  expended  in  local  charities.  He  was  disinterested 
and  sublime. 

It  seemed  to  the  inexperienced  mind  of  Henry  Liston  a 
pretty  programme.  It  would  be  a  magnificent  launch  for 
his  new  ideas  on  the  seas  of  experience.  He  was  quite 
sure  of  a  good  house.  The  thing  was  a  novelty.  The 
people  were  willing  to  be  amused;  and  they  thought 
nothing  of  the  shillings  they  had  to  pay.  A  few  wary 
spirits,  on  reading  over  the  spirited  programme,  fumbled 
in  their  pockets,  and  expressed  a  doubt  whether  "it 
would  be  value  for  their  money."  But  the  young  people, 
who  happily  had  not  yet  begun  to  calculate  the  money 
value  of  everything,  overruled  these  sceptics;  and  long 
before  the  eventful  evening  arrived,  every  seat,  amongst 
the  reserved  benches,  was  engaged. 
17 


242  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Henry  Listen  had  a  small  dinner  party,  consisting  of 
his  sister  and  Annie  O'Farrell,  and  the  good  confrere  who 
had  suggested  this  happy  idea;  and  they  drove  together 
to  the  Lackagh  school,  where  the  entertainment  was  to 
be  held.  The  school-room  was  very  large  and  spacious, 
having  been  built  for  the  accommodation  of  two  hundred 
children  on  the  separate  system.  The  two  schools  were 
now  thrown  into  one,  and  there  was  a  class-room  at  the 
end  which  served  admirably  as  a  dressing-room  for  the 
performers. 

There  was  not  even  standing-room  in  the  hall  when  the 
priests  arrived ;  but  their  places  and  the  seats  for  the  ladies 
who  accompanied  them  were  kept  carefully  with  that 
mute  sense  of  reverence  which  is  universally  shown  to 
the  priesthood  in  Ireland.  Right  in  front  of  where  they 
sat,  Henry  Liston  recognized  the  local  Protestant  rector, 
who  was  also  Archdeacon  of  the  Diocese,  and  with  him 
were  his  wife  and  sister. 

The  stage  was  prettily  arranged,  and  a  magnificent 
drop-scene,  representing  the  River  Lee  and  Blackrock 
Castle  by  moonlight,  was  just  sufficiently  raised  to  affora 
a  peep  at  the  splendour  of  back  scenes  and  side-wings. 
There  was  a  murmur  of  eager  applause  when  the  actors 
in  the  first  scene  appeared;  but  this  was  rapidly  changed 
into  fright  when  the  "Ghost"  came  forth  with  dreadful 
solemnity  from  the  side-wings,  and  Horatio  challenged 
it.  "It"  was  impersonated  by  a  local  artist,  named  Tim 
Finucane  or  Finigan,  who,  in  the  ordinary  stage  of  life, 
helped  his  neighbours  by  putting  slates  on  the  roofs  of 
outhouses  and  barns,  when  the  fierce  storms  that  beat 
along  this  unprotected  coast  had  laid  angry  hands  on 
them.  He  was  rather  small  of  stature,  and  it  happened 
that  his  ghostly  raiment  was  unusually  long;  so  that  he 
was  obliged  to  raise  it  in  front,  as  a  lady  raises  her  dress 
when  crossing  a  muddy  street.  His  face  was  covered 
with  chalk,  and  his  hair  was  powdered  with  flour.  Alto- 
gether, he  was  a  ghastly  sight,  and  there  was  a  panic 
amongst  the  children   at  his   first  appearance.     In  the 


THE  "GHOST"  IN  HAMLET  243 

first  scene  he  had  nothing  to  say,  as  the  "  Ghost "  was  to 
refuse  the  invitation  of  Horatio,  probably  because  that 
young  man  called  "it"  angry  names,  such  as  "illusion," 
etc.;  and  hinted  rather  broadly  that  the  ghost  was  a 
thief.  But  Tim  made  up  for  the  enforced  silence,  by 
rolling  his  eyes  dreadfully,  taking  in  the  full  orbit  of  the 
audience;  and  then  he  retired,  gracefully  holding  up  his 
garment  in  front.  It  was  only  then  it  began  to  dawn  on 
the  people,  and  particularly  on  the  "gods"  at  the  rear 
of  the  hall,  that  the  "Ghost"  was  verily  and  indeed  no 
other  than  their  own  Timothy  Finigan.  Hence  there 
was  terrible  disappointment  and  much  remorse,  for  they 
thought  Tim  would  not  appear  again. 

This,  however,  passed  away  for  the  moment  when 
"the  melancholy  Dane,"  clad  in  a  velvet  doublet  slashed 
with  silver,  and  in  gorgeous  nether  habiliments,  stepped 
forward  and  commenced  his  dialogue  with  the  King.  It 
was  then  that  Henry  Liston  recognized  in  the  graceful 
and  handsome  figure  his  friend  Delane.  With  a  gasp  of 
surprise,  he  turned  to  his  brother-cleric  and  said: 

"Why  that's  Delane  that's  doing  'Hamlet'!" 

"Of  course!"  said  his  friend  calmly.  "Do  you  know 
him?  A  born  artist!  Irving  couldn't  hold  a  candle  to 
him,  if  he  got  a  fair  chance.  But  those  London  fellows 
found  out  that  he  was  Irish;  and,  that  was  enough!  He 
was  hunted  from  the  stage." 

"  But,"  said  Henry  Liston  —  here  he  was  compelled  to 
stop  in  the  midst  of  his  hostile  criticism,  through  sheer 
admiration  of  the  magnificent  contempt  and  hidden 
hatred  which  Delane  poured  into  his  words  to  the  King 
and  Queen.  Of  course  there  was  some  Celtic  exaggeration, 
but  the  fellow,  in  some  mysterious  manner,  seemed  to 
have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  immortal  author;  and  Henry, 
carried  away  by  his  enthusiasm,  could  not  help  saying: 

"There's  no  good  talking.  If  we  had  just  a  trace  of 
education,  we'd  sweep  the  whole  world  before  us." 

A  sentiment  with  which  most  observers  will  cordially 
agree. 


244  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"But,"  continued  Henry,  "doesn't  our  friend  find  it 
necessary  to  float  his  powerful  mind  in  something  besides 
tea?" 

"Of  course!"  replied  his  clerical  brother.  "That  is 
part  of  the  programme.  Every  genius  drinks,  or  goes 
mad." 

"  The  fellow  told  me,  when  he  was  working  at  my  house, 
that  he  was  crossed  in  love,"  said  Henry. 

"He  tells  the  same  story  every  night  in  some  public 

house   in   M ,"   was   the  reply.     "Sometimes   'tis   a 

duchess;  sometimes  an  actress;  and  so  on.  He  told 
them  all  about  you.  But  he  said  you  lacked  imagination; 
that  you  had  never  heard  of  the  '  Ancient  Mariner. ' " 

"The  ruffian!"  said  Henry  Listen.  "But  here  comes 
the  'Ghost'  again!" 

This  time  the  "  Ghost "  appeared  more  lugubrious  than 
before,  possibly  because  now  he  had  to  make  certain 
revelations  to  Hamlet,  the  burden  of  which,  even  with 
the  aid  of  a  prompter,  was  too  much  for  Tim  Finigan's 
brain.  He  seemed  paralyzed  at  first,  rolling  his  eyes 
over  his  audience,  and  letting  them  rest  with  apprehen- 
sion on  the  "gods"  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  It  was  irre- 
sistible —  the  temptation  that  now  seized  them.  Tim's 
ghostly  aspect  suggested  the  immortal  song :  Tim  Finigan's 
Wake;  and  no  sooner  was  it  suggested  than  a  young 
fellow  commenced  to  Tim's  apparent  horror  to  sing: 

One  morning  Tim  felt  rather  dull, 
His  head  it  ached,  which  made  him  shake, 
He  fell  from  the  ladder,  and  broke  his  skull; 
They  carried  him  home  his  corpse  to  wake: 
They  rouled  him  up  in  a  nate,  clane  sheet, 
And  laid  him  out  upon  the  bed ; 
With  six  mould  candles  at  his  feet; 
And  a  bottle  of  whiskey  at  his  head. 

Whack-f al-la ;  your  sowl  to  glory  1 

Welt  the  flure!  your  trotters  shake! 

Wasn't  it  all  the  truth  I  told  ye  — 

Lots  of  fun  at  Finigan's  wake! 


THE   "GHOST"  IN   HAMLET  245 

All  this  time  the  "Ghost"  stood  paralyzed  with  anger 
—  hatred  and  more  than  histrionic  rage  passing  over  hia 
whitened  face.  A  few  times  he  stretched  forth  his  hand 
threateningly  toward  the  "  boys,"  which  action,  of  course, 
increased  the  merriment;  and  when  the  first  strophe  was 
ended,  Tim's  deep  voice  was  heard  echoing  down  the  hall: 

"Ye  bla— gards!" 

There  was  a  roar  of  laughter,  which  made  Tim  repeat, 
despite  the  dignified  remonstrances  of  Hamlet,  who  stood 
by  in  an  attitude  of  offended  majesty: 

"Ye  Lackagh  bla — gards!  Wait  till  I'm  done  wid  de 
pla— ay!" 

He  then  turned  around,  and  attempted  to  address  the 
dignified  Hamlet,  who  was  gracefully  pulling  his  mous- 
tache; but  the  moment  Tim  opened  his  mouth,  the  boys 
struck  up  again: 

Micky  Mulvany  raised  his  head, 

Whin  a  bottle  of  whiskey  flew  at  him, 

It  missed  him,  and  striking  agin  the  bed, 

The  sperrits  spattered  over  Tim. 

Bedad,  he  revived,  see  how  he  rises, 

Timothy  jumping  from  the  bed, 

Swears  while  he  wallops  them  all,  like  blazes, 

T'ainim  an  Dhiaoul!    Do  ye  think  I'm  dead? 

Whack-fal-la-fal-la-fal-lady 

Welt  the  floor!     Your  trotters  shake! 

Wasn't  it  all  the  truth  I  told  ye — 

Lots  of  fun  at  Finigan's  wake! 

Here  the  angry  "Ghost,"  threatening  fire  and  brim- 
stone, was  pulled  in;  and  the  young  priest,  who  had  sent 

his  troupe  up  from  M ,  rose  solemnly;  and,  in  a  few, 

pohtely  sarcastic  words  about  the  intellectual  backward- 
ness of  the  people  of  that  parish,  their  utter  want  of 
appreciation  of  a  great  drama,  and  the  intense  vulgarity 
of  that  rowdy  song,  he  had  them  all  soon  reduced  into 
humiliated  silence.  He  then  sorrowfully,  and  with  tears 
in  his  voice,  expressed  his  regret  that  in  an  assembly  of 
Irishmen  such  a  rowdy  song  reflecting  upon  the  Irish 


246  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

character  should  be  tolerated  for  a  moment.  English- 
men might  laugh  at  such  revolting  caricatures  of  the  Irish 
character,  but  surely  in  the  new  awakening  of  the  nation, 
when  Irishmen  were  beginning  to  exercise,  as  well  as  to 
feel,  that  self-respect  which  belongs  to  every  free  people, 
and  the  absence  of  which  only  characterizes  enslaved 
nationalities,  surely  such  songs  of  the  nation's  slavery 
as  that  which  they  had  just  listened  to  should  not  for  a 
moment  be  tolerated  by  a  people  awakening  to  a  sense  of 
their  dignity  and  importance.  He  had  only  yielded  to 
the  importunities  of  his  friend.  Father  Liston,  in  order 
that  new  light  might  be  thrown  into  the  lives  of  the 
people.  If  he  had  for  a  moment  anticipated  this  gross 
and  unseemly  interruption  to  the  progress  of  the  play,  he 
would  not  have  dreamed  of  bringing  his  dramatic  troupe 
into  their  village.  In  conclusion,  he  begged  of  them  not 
to  interrupt  further  by  such  unseemly  demonstrations. 
Otherwise,  he  should  be  reluctantly  obliged  to  suspend 
the  performance;  and  this  would  not  only  be  a  personal 
loss  to  themselves,  but  would  reflect  unending  discredit 
on  the  people  of  that  parish. 

This  discourse  was  received  in  respectful  silence;  the 
only  comment  was  made  at  its  termination  : 

"Begor,  we  couldn't  help  it,  yer  reverence.  The  tim- 
tation  was  too  great!" 

Meanwhile,  Henry  Liston  was  occupied  by  another 
reflection,  which  not  only  made  him  quite  insensible  to 
the  honour,  or  dishonour,  of  his  parish;  but  completely 
spoiled  all  his  interest  in  the  play  to  the  end.  He  had 
noticed,  that,  on  the  last  appearance  of  the  "Ghost," 
the  archdeacon,  who  sat  right  in  front,  leaned  over  to 
his  wife,  and,  pointing  to  the  "Ghost,"  seemed  to  make 
some  excited  comments  on  his  appearance.  And  a 
dreadful  thought  then  and  there  took  hold  of  Henry 
Liston's  imagination.  It  so  preoccupied  him  that  he 
did  not  exchange  a  word,  except  a  brief  "  Yes"  and  " No" 
with  his  confrere,  who  had  an  uneasy  consciousness  that 
perhaps  he  had  gone  too  far  in  his  remarks,  and  that 


THE  "GHOST"  IN  HAMLET  247 

his  good  friend,  Henry  Liston,  was  offended  for  his 
severe  strictures  on  the  conduct  of  the  people. 

The  play  seemed  to  drag  on  interminably;  but  all 
things  have  an  end;  and  the  moment  the  people  began 
to  rise  up  and  file  out  of  the  hall,  Henry  Liston  whispered 
to  his  sister,  "Wait  for  me  outside!"  and  he  leaped  up 
the  rude  steps  that  led  to  the  stage,  and  thence  to  the 
dressing-room.  The  lamp  that  flared  on  the  wall  revealed 
the  performers,  more  or  less  in  deshabille,  as  they  put 
off  the  dramatic  costumes,  and  assumed  the  garments 
of  ordinary  civiHzation.  Hamlet,  however,  was  still  in 
his  slashed  velvet  doublet  and  silk  stockings,  and  was 
leaning  in  a  dignified  and  melancholy  manner  against 
the  side  scenes.  The  "Ghost"  was  seated  on  a  trunk 
which  had  contained  some  of  the  stage  "properties"; 
and  his  head  was  bent  down  between  his  legs  in  an  atti- 
tude of  mournful  and  despairing  resignation. 

"I  say,"  said  Henry  Liston,  in  an  excited  manner, 
"did  all  these  costumes  come  from  the  Theatre?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Hamlet.  "They  belong  to  the  lessees 
of  the  Temple  of  Thespis  in  Cork." 

"  They  —  do  —  not ! "  said  the  "  Ghost "  in  an  emphatic, 
but  mournful  manner. 

"So  I  thought!"  said  Henry.  "In  the  name  of  God, 
Finigan,  what  possessed  you  to  take  this  thing?" 

He  pointed  to  the  white  linen  garment,  with  the  very 
voluminous  sleeves,  which  the  "Ghost"  was  wearing. 

"Why  the  mischief,"  he  continued  in  an  angry  and 
excited  manner,  "didn't  you  come  to  me?  I'd  have 
lent  you  a  surplice." 

"Yarra,  what  good  'ud  be  your  surplus?"  said  the 
Ghost.  "  Shure,  you're  surplus  wouldn't  rache  to  a 
man's  hips.  And,  besides,  wor  we  goin'  to  commit  a 
sacrilege  by  wearin'  a  priesht's  vestments?" 

"All  I  know  is,"  said  the  young  priest,  "you  have 
committed  one  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  now,  if  you  cannot 
get  back  that  —  article,  before  the  thing  is  discovered." 

"Yarra,  make  your  mind  aisy,  yer  reverence,"  said 


248  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Tim.  "You're  too  narvous  intirely.  Them  that  took 
the  ould  minister's  shirt  can  put  it  back  again." 

"I  hope  they  will,  and  quickly,"  said  Henry  Liston. 
"You  wouldn't  be  so  easy  in  your  mind,  if  you  saw  the 
way  he  was  watching  you  during  the  play!" 

"He  may  go  to  the  divil,"  quoth  Tim.  And  Henry 
Liston  left  him  in  peace. 

He  hastened  out  to  find  his  sister  alone,  standing  near 
the  side-car,  awaiting  him, 

"  Where's  Annie?  "  he  said. 

"Gone  home,"  was  the  reply. 

"Gone  home?  I  understood  she  was  coming  back 
with  us?" 

"She  changed  her  mind.  I  heard  Mr.  Wycherly  say 
that  it  would  be  a  pleasure  if  she  allowed  him  drive  her 
to  her  uncle's  gate.  And  she  consented.  The  Wycherlys 
are  gone  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

So  they  were.  They  drove  along  the  moon-lit  road, 
passing  groups  of  passengers  here  and  there,  who  gave 
way  as  the  car  passed;  and  then  closed  in,  making  un- 
complimentary remarks  on  car  and  passengers.  The 
two  young  boys.  Jack  and  Dion,  were  on  one  wing  of 
the  car,  Annie  and  Ned  Wycherly  on  the  other.  The 
drive  was  short,  barely  two  miles.  But  when  she  alighted, 
she  passed  into  her  uncle's  house  without  a  word  of 
thanks  or  farewell;  and  that  night  a  weary  head  pressed 
her  pillow,  and  bitter  tears  bedewed  it.  So  powerful 
is  the  utterance  of  a  word  in  the  ears  of  the  innocent. 
It  was  only  one  word  from  the  play  they  had  just  wit- 
nessed; but  it  revealed  the  beast  that  is  in  man. 

But  he  was  unconcerned.  For  just  as  they  left  the 
priest's  gate,  a  pyramid  of  flame  shot  up  into  the  sky 
from  the  summit  of  the  hill,  on  which  their  father's  house 
was  built, 

"  Duggan's  rick  is  on  fire ! "  said  Jack. 

"No!  'tis  Kerins's  house  and  out-offices,"  said  his 
brother. 

"  It  may  be  our  own  I "  said  Edward,  as  he  pushed  the 


THE   "GHOST"  IN    HAMLET  249 

horse   forward   along  the  road,   and   breasted   the    hill 
toward  the  sea. 

A  month  or  so  later,  Henry  Liston,  who  had  quite 
forgotten  all  about  the  play,  other  more  serious  things 
engrossing  him,  strolled  in  on  business  to  the  local  shoe- 
maker, named  Cupps,  who  also  filled  the  office  of  sexton 
and  bell-ringer  to  the  Protestant  church. 

After  the  interchange  of  a  few  words,  and  the  trans- 
action of  a  little  business,  Cupps,  looking  up  from  his 
work,  said  slyly: 

"  That  was  a  grand  play  ye  had  up  at  the  school  a  few 
weeks  ago,  sirl" 

"  It  was ! "  said  Henry,  carelessly. 

"  It  must  have  cost  a  power  and  all  of  money  to  bring 
down  all  them  grand  clothes  and  wigs  and  swords  from 
Cork,"  said  Cupps,  hammering  away  at  the  boot  in  his 
lap. 

"So  it  did,"  said  Henry.  "There  was  little  left  for 
charity,  I  promise  you!" 

Cupps  hammered  away  furiously  for  a  few  seconds. 
Then  suddenly  stopping,  he  looked  up,  and  said: 

"A  quare  thing  happened  the  next  morning,  your 
reverence;  but  I  haven't  tould  a  mother's  sowl  about  it." 

He  stopped  for  dramatic  effect,  and  then  continued: 

"Whin  I  opened  the  vesthry  window  that  morning, 
the  fust  thing  I  see  was  the  diamond  panes  of  glass  broken; 
and  a  jackdaw  lying  dead  on  the  floor." 

A  light  was  breaking  in  on  Henry's  mind,  but  he  said 
nothing. 

"  Now,  in  all  honesty,  yer  reverence,"  asked  the  cobbler, 
"do  you  believe  that  a  jackdaw  could,  or  would,  dash 
himself  against  a  leaded  window,  and  break  through  it, 
killing  himself?" 

"Well,  I  suppose,  that  would  depend  on  the  force  with 
which  he  flew,"  said  Henry. 

The  cobbler  beat  round  the  soles  of  the  boot  rapidly. 
Then,  he  said  jerkily: 


250  THE   BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Another  quare  thing  I  found  that  morning,  yer 
reverence.  The  Archdayken's  surphce,  which  was  as 
clane  as  a  pin  on  Sunday  morning,  was  that  morning  as 
dirty  as  if  a  tramp  had  slept  in  it.  Wasn't  that  quare 
now,  your  reverence?" 

And  he  looked  up  at  the  priest  with  a  meaning  smile. 

"It  was;  very  strange,  indeed!"  quoth  Henry. 

And  the  cobbler  seemed  now  to  beat  in  the  wooden 
rivets  and  iron  tacks  as  furiously  as  if  he  were  in  a  passion. 
But  no!  he  was  only  dramatizing  a  little.  Then  he  sud- 
denly stopped;  and  looking  up  again,  he  said: 

"And  the  quarest  thing  of  all  is  this,  yer  reverence. 
I  don't  know  what  the  Archdayken  drinks  at  home.  It 
may  be  champagne,  or  it  may  be  soda-water.  But  this 
I  can  take  my  Bible  oath  upon  —  that,  at  least,  whin 
he's  conducting  divine  service,  he's  not  in  the  habit  of 
spilling  bottled  porter  over  his  clothes." 

"I  should  say  not,  indeed,"  said  Henry  Liston,  with  a 
gaiety  he  didn't  feel.  He  didn't  know  what  this  church 
official,  with  the  knowledge  he  certainly  possessed  of  the 
midnight  raid  upon  the  vestry,  was  going  to  do.  The 
latter,  however,  explained. 

"But,  mum's  the  word,"  yer  reverence.  "I  don't 
want  to  see  thim  poor  fools  sent  to  gaol  for  six  months. 
But  it  was  fortunate  for  them  the  thing  occurred  in  the 
beginning  of  the  week;  and  not  of  a  Saturday  night.  I 
had  the  whole  thing  spick  and  span  by  Sunday  morning. 
'I'm  afraid,  Cupps,'  said  the  Archdayken,  'that  you  get 
my  surpHce  washed  too  often.'  He  was  rubbing  his  chin 
and  smiling.  I  knew  what  he  meant.  'The  claner  and 
whiter  they  are,  sir,'  sez  I,  'the  more  they'll  frighten  the 
ghosts  away.  An'  I'm  towld  that  a  ghost  has  been  seen 
around  here  lately.'  'So  I  heard,  CHipps,'  sez  he.  And 
there'll  be  no  nore  about  it!" 


BOOK  II 


CHAPTER  XXV 

Partings 

Years  had  rolled  by  over  the  heads  of  our  actors  in 
this  little  drama  —  years,  leaden-footed  to  the  young, 
swift  to  the  old.  And  they  brought  with  them  many 
changes,  for  good  or  ill,  for  the  years  are  impartial,  and 
they  drop  snowflakes  or  fireflakes  at  will  on  the  heads 
over  which  they  pass  in  their  flight  to  eternity. 

All  our  younger  friends  had  left  the  parish,  and  changed 
the  venue  of  life  elsewhere.  The  old  had  struck  their 
roots  too  deeply  to  bear  transplanting. 

Mary  Liston  had  entered,  not  the  Convent  of  the 
teaching  order,  where  she  had  been  educated,  but  one  of 
the  strictest  and  most  austere  observance  in  the  Church 
—  that  of  the  Poor  Clares,  or  Collettines.  The  reason 
for  the  change  originated  in  a  casual  conversation  which 
she  had,  a  few  days  before  she  left  her  brother's  house, 
with  Nance,  the  poor  girl  who  earned  her  livelihood  by 
washing  in  the  diamond-paned  cottage  at  the  corner  of 
the  road  which  led  from  Lackagh  to  the  parish  priest's 
house.  A  slight  acquaintance  had  sprung  up  between 
them;  and  Mary  Liston  had  visited  the  cottage  a  few 
times,  attracted  thither  by  the  strange  supernatural 
atmosphere  of  the  place  —  the  realization  and  bringing 
down  into  daily  life  of  the  Unseen  Powers,  that  from  their 
hidden  habitation  amongst  us  seem  to  hold  their  hnnds 
on  the  pulse  of  all  things  that  breathe  and  move.  This 
sense  of  the  supernatural  breathed  from  every  object 
in  the  humble  cabin;  and  it  was  so  intimate  that  the  girl 
expressed  her  surprise  that  Miss  Liston  should  suppose 
it  unusual. 

253 


254  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Lonesome,  Miss?  Yerra,  no!  I'm  never  lonesome 
here.  I  keeps  the  best  of  company.  Whin  I'm  pounding 
and  washing  and  beethng  and  manghng  these  clothes,  I 
do  be  thinking  all  the  time  of  how  the  Blessed  Virgin 
did  the  same  for  Jesus  and  Joseph.  An'  I  imagines  her 
to  be  here  near  me,  both  of  us  working  together;  and  I 
do  be  talkin'  to  her;  and  she  to  me.  And  sometimes  I 
axes  her  all  about  her  Divine  Son;  and  she  ups  and  tells 
me  everything  —  what  He  wears,  and  what  He  eats  and 
drinks;  and  where  she  gets  things  for  the  house;  an'  how 
she  manages  the  poor  wages  St.  Joseph  aims.  And  thin, 
whin  she  goes  away,  I  talks  to  the  Lord  over  there  on 
His  cross,  and  I  tells  Him  all  I  thinks  and  feels  about 
His  sufferings  and  death,  until  the  big  lump  comes  into 
me  throat,  and  I  haves  to  shtop.  And  thin,  I  takes  to 
singing  ould  tunes  and  hymns  my  grandmother  taught 
me  —  wild  ould  Irish  songs,  in  which  the  Blessed  Trinity 
and  the  Incarnation,  and  every  thin'  is  mixed  up  together, 
ontil  I  gets  so  happy  an'  joyful,  that  I  do  be  jumpin' 
out  of  me  skin." 

"Then,"  said  Mary  Liston,  "you're  never  sad,  nor 
sorrowful,  nor  wishing  to  be  something  else  than  what 
you  are?" 

"Yerra,  God  bless  you,  no,  Miss!"  said  the  girl.  "I 
don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  sorrowful.  I  was  a  bit  lone- 
some whin  me  ould  grandmother  wint  away  from  me; 
but  that's  all  passed  and  gone.  I  know  she's  in  heaven, 
altho'  I  still  get  Masses  and  prayers  said  for  her.  But, 
I'm  not  a  bit  sad  nor  sorrowful  now.  How  could  I  be, 
when  I  have  Jesus,  Mary,  and  Joseph,  wid  me?  And  look, 
Miss!  all  them  Saints  comes  out  of  their  pictures  and 
talks  to  me;  and  sometimes,  whin  I  go  to  bed  at  wan 
or  two  in  the  mornin',  I  can't  sleep  I'm  so  full  of  joy,  and 
me  heart  is  big  enough  to  break  in  bits." 

"But,  you  have  a  hard  life,"  said  Miss  Liston.  "Up 
in  the  dark  of  the  morning,  working  all  day  in  soap-suds 
and  a  steamy  atmosphere,  and  all  nearly  for  nothing,  for 
I  have  heard  you  are  poorly  paid." 


PARTINGS  255 

"As  to  gettin'  up  in  the  mornin',''  said  the  poor  girl, 
"that's  aisy  enough,  whin  you  want  to  get  back  amongst 
all  that's  holy  and  good;  and  as  for  workin'  all  day,  I 
don't  mind  it.  It  would  be  much  harder  to  be  sittin' 
down  on  that  sugan  chair,  idle  and  lazy.  And  as  for 
the  pay,  sure  I  haves  enough;  an  I  sez  to  meself  that  I 
am  richer  than  the  Blessed  Virgin,  for  I  have  only  wan 
mouth  to  feed;  and  she  had  three,  blessed  be  their  holy 
names!" 

"  But,  then,  you  must  be  sometimes  fagged  out  and 
tired,"  persisted  Miss  Liston,  who  was  struck  by  this 
picture  of  transcendent  piety  in  such  a  place,  "and  you 
must  long  to  lie  down  and  be  at  rest,  and  give  up  work 
altogether?  " 

"  Yerra,  God  bless  you,  no.  Miss!"  was  the  reply. 
"Whin  I  am  tired,  I  just  thinks  of  our  Lord  carrying  His 
cross  to  Calvary;  and  it  gives  me  new  strinth.  Whin  I 
wants  to  lie  down,  I  sez  to  meself,  Ha!  if  you  had  the 
hard  bed  of  the  cross  to  lie  upon,  you  wouldn't  be  in  such 
a  hurry,  me  lady !  Or,  if  your  two  hands  and  feet  were 
gripped  in  the  cowld,  hard  nails,  that  were  rusting  with 
your  blood,  you  wouldn't  mind  the  hot  wather  and  the 
soda  that  blisthers  'em  now.  Ah,  no,  Miss,  whin  we 
think  of  all  that  was  done  and  suffered  for  us,  it's  aisy 
to  bear  our  own  little  thrials  —  av  coorse,  with  the  help 
of  Him  who  sinds  them." 

Now,  all  this  made  Mary  Liston  reflect;  and  some  holy 
books  that  ever  lay  on  her  dressing-table  seemed  to  repeat 
in  better  language  the  words  of  this  poor  girl.  And  then 
Mary  Liston  began  to  pray  —  that  is,  to  pray  in  earnest 
—  not  to  say  her  prayers  only.  And  gradually  a  new 
light  began  to  creep  into  her  life,  and  a  strange,  weird 
sense  of  a  world  beyond  the  world  of  time  and  sense 
began  to  dawn  on  her  startled  mind.  She  now  became 
afraid.  She  was  at  the  parting  of  the  ways.  She  had 
gone  too  far  to  go  back;  and  yet  she  feared  to  go  forward, 
for  there  she  knew  were  desolation  and  trial,  before  she 
could  emerge  into  the  peace  and  joy  that  surpasseth 


256  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

understanding.  It  was  the  ordeal  through  which  every 
select  soul  must  pass  that  is  called  to  the  higher  life  — 
the  skirting  of  the  howling  valleys  of  desolation  before 
emerging  into  the  sunlight  of  the  beckoning  hills.  But 
she  persevered;  and  in  silence.  Never  a  word  did  she 
speak  to  her  mother  or  even  to  her  brother  about  the 
call  and  the  consequences.  Only  they  noticed  that  she 
had  grown  paler  and  thinner,  and  more  reserved,  though 
not  less  cheerful.  Some  said  it  was  the  exercise  of  cycling 
which  was  settling  her  features  in  such  lines  of  hardness 
and  strength.  Some  said  it  was  the  sea-air.  But  she 
went  her  way  in  a  silence  broken  only  by  her  conferences 
with  Nance.  Then,  one  day,  she  got  permission  to  attend 
a  retreat  for  ladies  at  a  certain  city  convent.  There 
she  decided  that  her  vocation  was  not  for  a  life  of  teaching 
or  nursing  or  visiting;  but  for  a  life  of  contemplation  and 
prayer,  broken  only  by  the  austerities  of  the  severest 
order  in  the  Church. 

Strange  to  say  she  received  no  opposition  except  in 
one  quarter,  and  that  the  least  expected.  Her  home 
friends  assented  in  unquestioning  silence.  They  knew 
nothing  about  such  things.  They  only  knew  that  her 
Director  had  bidden  her  thither,  and  she  should  obey 
the  call.  Her  brother  offered  no  opposition.  His  heart 
sank  somewhat  when  he  thought  of  his  little  sister  walking 
the  flagged  or  tiled  corridors  of  the  convent  in  bare  feet; 
or  rising  at  midnight  with  the  sleep  still  heavy  on  her 
eyelids  to  go  down  to  the  cold  dark  choir  for  two  or  three 
hours;  or  ringing  the  alms-bell,  when  she  and  her  religious 
sisters  were  actually  hungry.  But  he  had  too  deep  a 
sense  of  the  supernatural  to  oppose  the  manifest  will  of 
God.  He  only  questioned  his  sister  as  to  whether  she 
quite  understood  and  realized  the  austerities  she  was 
about  to  face.  And  when  she  had  answered  that  she  had 
measured  and  weighed  them  all  and  her  own  strength 
and  endurance,  he  said:  "God's  will  be  done!"  But  the 
very  day  she  entered  religion,  he  quietly  sold  all  his  silver, 
and  evermore  tried  to  imitate  her  although  afar  off. 


PARTINGS  257 

But  Annie  O'Farrell  was  furious.  That  is  the  only- 
word,  I  think,  that  will  express  her  indignation  and  grief 
at  her  young  friend's  resolution.  Somehow,  probably 
in  the  absence  of  other  friends,  and  in  the  soft  heat  of 
youthful  enthusiasm,  she  had  grown  into  a  singular 
unity  of  thought  and  purpose  with  Mary  Liston.  Their 
ideas,  sentiments,  longings  seemed  to  harmonize  in  such 
completeness  that  no  room  was  left  for  doubt  or  distrust. 
And  Annie  O'Farrell,  though  of  a  strong  nature,  still  felt 
a  new  zest  in  life,  because  she  had  a  friend,  not  so  much 
to  lean  upon,  as  to  share  her  inmost  thoughts,  and  be- 
come the  partner  of  all  her  future  hopes  and  ambitions. 
And  now,  here  is  the  friend  ruthlessly  torn  from  her  side 
by  a  fanatical  idea;  and  so  unexpectedly  that  Ajinie 
refused  to  believe  it  until  she  heard  it  from  her  own  lips. 
It  was  at  Father  Listen's  house. 

"This  is  not  true,  Mary  Liston,"  she  said  in  an  aggrieved 
tone.  "  Father  Liston  has  told  me  that  you  are  about  to 
become  a  Collettine,  or  something  else  of  that  kind;  but 
although  he  is  a  priest,  I  refuse  to  believe  it.  Say  it  is 
not  true!" 

"But  it  is,  Annie,"  said  Miss  Liston.  "I  shall  wait 
for  a  few  weeks  longer  to  make  some  preparations;  and 
then  I  depart.     Ah,  if  you  could  only  come  also!" 

"Me?"  said  Annie,  shocked  and  angry.  "God  forbid 
that  I  should  bury  myself  in  a  tomb  for  the  rest  of  my 
life." 

"Sometimes  flowers  grow  even  in  tombs,"  said  her 
friend  laughing,  yet  with  a  certain  sadness  in  her  voice. 

"  It  is  sheer  nonsense  —  sheer,  downright,  stark  mad- 
ness," said  Annie.  "  I'm  amazed  that  Father  Liston 
could  tolerate  the  idea  for  a  moment.  I  knew  always 
you'd  be  a  nun.  Something  told  me  of  it.  But  then  I 
hoped  you  would  join  a  high-class  teaching  order,  where 
you  would  have  all  the  refinements  and  advantages  of 
life  and  yet  do  good  —  real,  positive  good  in  educating 
young  girls  decently.  But  to  bury  yourself  in  a  hole, 
where  you  will  be  half-starved  and  perished  with  cold 
IS 


258  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

and  hunger,  and  where  you  can  never  be  of  any  use  to 
man  or  mortal  —  I  say,  Mary,  you'll  never  stand  it  — • 
not  for  a  week,  mark  my  words.  And  then  out  you'll 
come;  and  the  whole  world  will  be  laughing  at  you." 

Here  Henry  Liston  entered.     Annie  turned  to  him. 

"Father  Liston,"  she  said,  "how  can  you  entertain 
for  a  moment  the  idea  of  allowing  Mary  to  enter  that 
horrible  hole  of  a  convent?  Don't  you  know,  as  well  as 
I  do,  that  she  won't  stand  it  for  a  week?  For  God's 
sake,  stop  it  now,  before  it  becomes  too  late.  You  know, 
if  Mary  enters,  her  pride  will  keep  her  from  returning, 
even  though  she  knows  her  life  will  be  a  purgatory.  I 
can't  understand  why  you  should  allow  it.  And  I  can't 
understand  why  the  Church  should  tolerate  such  useless 
and  cruel  institutions  here  in  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century." 

So  she  argued,  reasoned,  pleaded  with  all  the  eloquence 
of  a  love  that  was  being  broken  into  pieces  by  such  sever- 
ance. But  it  was  of  no  use.  Mary  Liston  smiled  at  her 
friend's  extravagance.  Father  Liston  said  nothing.  He 
went  about,  sad  and  resigned  to  the  inevitable. 

Annie  broached  the  matter  to  her  uncle.  She  argued, 
pleaded,  expostulated,  in  the  hope  that  he  would  inter- 
fere.    But  here  she  was  met  by  a  wall  of  adamant. 

"It  is  the  Law!"  he  said. 

"What  Law?"  she  cried.  "What  Law  can  bind  a 
young  girl,  in  all  the  freshness  and  sweetness  of  her  youth, 
to  bury  herself  in  a  hole,  to  wear  coarse  flannels,  to  eat 
coarse  food  which  she  begs,  to  get  up  in  the  middle  of 
the  night  and  go  down  into  a  cold  chapel  —  ugh!  And, 
worse  than  all,  to  lead  a  lazy,  useless  life,  neither  good  for 
king  nor  country?" 

"A  lazy,  useless  life?"  he  muttered  severely.  "A  lazy, 
useless  life?  What  are  you  speaking  of,  Annie?  Or,  do 
you  quite  understand  what  you  mean?" 

"Perfectly,"  she  replied,  although  she  was  afraid  she 
had  gone  too  far.  "  It  is  a  lazy,  useless  Hfe  to  do  nothing 
but  meditate  and  pray,  and  —  fast." 


PARTINGS  259 

"What  would  you,  in  your  great  wisdom,  substitute 
for  prayer?"  he  asked. 

"  Why,  work  —  work  of  some  kind,  teaching,  tending 
the  sick,  making  girls  useful,  and  so  on." 

"But  prayer  is  work!"  he  said,  so  gently  now  that 
Annie  did  not  see  how  she  was  betraying  herself. 

"Prayer  —  work?  Surely,  Uncle,  you're  mistaken. 
Prayer  —  work?     Who  ever  heard  the  like?" 

"Try  it  for  one  hour,"  he  said,  "for  one  half-hour;  and 
you'll  be  glad  to  get  back  to  your  needle." 

The  experiment  was  not  needed.     She  admitted  the  fact. 

"  But,  then  it  is  useless  —  I  mean,  one  cannot  see  the 
utility  of  it,  like  teaching,  or  nursing?" 

"Of  course,"  he  replied.  "These  are  the  stock  argu- 
ments of  modern  irreligion.  Everything  now  must  show 
itself  in  order  to  be  recognized.  Men  will  believe  only 
what  they  see.  And  yet,"  he  continued,  in  a  musing 
manner,  "they  might  see  the  magnificent,  the  unspeak- 
able power  of  prayer,  if  they  would  but  open  their  foolish 
eyes  to  see.  But  no,  the  animal  sees  but  the  fodder 
beneath  its  mouth;  and  the  world  will  persist  in  looking 
at  things  in  a  bovine  manner  forever.  But  to  the  eyes 
of  faith,  what  daily,  hourly  miracles  are  wrought  by 
prayer!  But  there,  I'm  speaking  to  a  nineteenth-century, 
up-to-date,  fin-de-sikle  young  Yank;  and  she  cannot 
understand." 

"No!  indeed,"  said  Annie,  taking  courage  from  the 
kindly  bantering.  "All  I  can  tell  you,  Uncle,  is  this. 
America  is  to  be  the  right-hand  of  the  Church  in  the 
immediate  future.  That's  settled.  When  all  your  old, 
outworn,  old  Churches  are  gone  to  pieces,  America  will 
be  the  young  athlete  of  Catholicity.  But,  we  won't  stand 
any  nonsense,  mind  you,  over  there!  No  old  Middle- 
Age  institutions,  with  their  hair-cloths,  and  chains,  and 
fastings;  but  useful,  educational  institutions  for  the  young 
and  brave  Americans  —  " 

"  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  stop  that,  Annie,"  he  cried  in  dis- 
may. 


260  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

She  burst  out  laughing. 

"Ah!  there  it  is,"  she  said.  "No  use  trying  to  open  up 
your  old  world  to  see  what  the  future  is  bringing.  But 
say,  Uncle.  You  said,  in  speaking  of  Mary,  that  she  had 
to  go.  It  is  the  Law!  What  law?  Where  is  the  law 
that  can  bind  a  young  girl  to  give  up  her  youth,  and  love- 
liness, and  hope,  to  bury  herself  in  a  living  tomb?  I 
don't  believe  God  ever  made  such  a  law  as  that." 

"Go  and  say  your  prayers,  child,"  he  said.  "Learn  to 
pray!  All  the  eloquence  of  the  world  wouldn't  make  it 
clear  to  you  now.  It  is  speaking  of  colour  to  a  blind  per- 
son. Pity  that  Miss  Liston  is  going  so  soon.  She  would 
teach  you  a  good  deal,  Annie." 

He  paused,  as  if  thinking.     Then  he  went  on: 

"  Yes!  she  would  teach  you  a  good  deal  —  a  good  deal 
that  cannot  be  learned  now  except  by  the  way  of  tears." 

At  which  Annie  marvelled  a  little;  but  only  a  little. 

Only  a  little!  Because  she  had  already  experienced 
what  it  is  to  pass  under  the  hands  of  the  taskmaster  who 
demands  his  fees  in  tears.  That  word,  that  quotation 
of  four  lines  from  "  Hamlet,"  which  Edward  Wycherly 
had  whispered  to  her  on  the  side-car  the  night  she  drove 
with  him  from  the  school-house  had  smitten  her  with 
terror  and  shame  such  as  she  had  never  known  before. 
A  sudden  blow  on  the  face  to  a  strong  man  is  not  more 
of  a  surprise  and  insult  than  an  indelicate  word  uttered 
in  the  ear  of  a  pure-minded  girl.  And  when  Annie 
O'Farrell,  hastily  descending  from  the  side-car,  abruptly, 
too,  without  a  word  of  thanks  or  farewell,  sought  her 
room,  it  was  with  a  sense  of  insult  and  shame,  that  made 
her  eyes  dilate  and  one  hot  blush  after  another  mount 
to  her  neck  and  face.  She  felt,  as  she  afterwards  described 
it,  as  if  some  loathsome  and  fetid  fluid  had  been  flung 
upon  her,  and  had  saturated  her  garments,  and  could 
not  be  removed  by  any  manner  of  chemical.  It  was  a 
hot  head  that  pressed  the  pillow  that  night;  and  the 
pillow  was  wet  with  tears. 

When  the  morning  came,  however,  it  was  not  a  girl, 


PARTINGS  261 

gentle  and  joyful,  that  arose  to  face  the  labours  of  the  day; 
but  a  woman,  strong  and  determined  and  angry  with 
herself  and  the  world.  There  was  a  sense  of  shame  sur- 
rounding her  that  gave  her  unusual  fortitude.  She  had 
tasted  of  the  bitter  tree  of  knowledge  of  good  and  evil; 
and,  although  she  felt  and  knew  that  her  conscience 
could  not  upbraid  her,  and  that  she  was  as  innocent  as 
on  the  morning  of  her  first  communion,  she  also  felt  that 
she  had  been  initiated  into  the  mystery  of  mysteries — • 
the  iniquity  that  covers  and  encompasses  the  earth.  And 
a  grave,  solemn  silence  seemed  to  come  down  upon  her 
life;  and  when  she  spoke,  it  was  with  the  assurance  of 
womanhood,  and  not  the  timidity  of  a  girl.  Her  whole 
character  was  stricken  into  precocity  by  one  word,  just 
as  one  word  sometimes  reveals  vice  or  genius. 

Her  uncle  supposed  that  it  was  a  sense  of  loneliness 
and  sorrow  after  her  companion  that  weighed  on  her 
spirits;  and  he  strove  to  reason  with  her.  Then  one  day 
she  revealed  her  intention  of  going  away,  and  preparing 
for  life  in  some  independent  fashion.  He  was  alarmed 
and  angry.  He  then  felt  how  much  she  had  grown  into 
his  life.     He  then  pleaded  his  growing  infirmity. 

"I  had  hoped,"  he  said,  "that  you  would  stay  with 
me  unto  the  end.  Annie,  you  know  what  I  anticipate, 
partial  if  not  utter  blindness.  That  will  be  dreadful  if 
you  abandon  me.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  have  no  one  to 
read  to  me;  to  speak  to  me." 

But  he  did  not  know  that  the  strength  and  stubbornness 
of  his  own  character  was  reflected  in  that  of  his  niece. 
She  shook  her  head.  He  then  decided  that  she  was  cold 
and  selfish. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  your  American  training,"  he  said,  with 
bitterness.  "Everyone  for  herself  there!  Very  good! 
I  cannot  prevent  you!" 

"But,  Uncle,"  she  said,  "you  don't,  you  cannot  under- 
stand. Oh!  It  is  so  hard  to  explain.  Believe  me,  I 
am  not  ungrateful  nor  indifferent  to  you.     But  —  " 

He  was  silent. 


262  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  I  must  go.  Indeed,  I  must.  I  am  not  tired  of  Doon- 
varragh ;  and  I  don't  want  to  see  the  world ;  and  I  am  not 
ungrateful.  Oh,  Uncle  dear,  don't  think  so!  Perhaps, 
one  day,  I'll  explain.     But  I  must  go ! " 

"Very  well!"  he  said,  coldly. 

"  But  I'll  come  back  on  all  my  holidays,  and  this  will 
always  be  my  home  —  that  is,  if  you  allow  me.  Say  you 
will,  dear  Uncle.  Say,  'Come  back,  whenever  you  like. 
This  will  always  be  your  home,  Annie.' " 

"Well,"  he  said,  "you're  an  ungrateful  hussy.  But, 
I  suppose,  I  can't  turn  you  out,  if  you  care  to  come." 

"Oh,  oh!  That  won't  do  at  all,  at  all!  Say,  'Annie, 
you  go  with  my  blessing,  and  with  my  full  free  will  and 
consent.  And  you're  always  to  come  back  here  when 
you  are  disposed,  or  I  need  you.  And  when  I'm  very 
old,  you  shall  come  back  altogether  to  nurse  me;  and  —  ' " 

So  there  were  pleadings  and  counterpleadings  between 
two  strong  spirits  for  many  months,  nature  and  habit 
struggling  with  the  strong  man  to  retain  the  companion- 
ship of  his  niece;  instinct  and  an  undefinable  desire  to 
flee  from  danger  prevailing  with  his  niece.  Then,  one 
day,  wearied  by  her  importunity,  he  said  to  her: 

"There  now,  there  now!  Go,  child,  in  God's  name! 
I'm  not  going  to  set  my  face  against  Providence.  And 
perhaps,  after  all,  you  are  right,  and  it  is  for  the  best. 
When  we  are  nearing  eternity,  it  is  foolish  to  entangle 
ourselves  in  human  ties." 

It  was  not  very  soothing;  but  Annie  had  her  way.  And 
hence,  some  years  have  elapsed,  and  Mary  Liston,  long 
since  professed,  is  treading  the  flagged  corridors  of  her 
convent  with  bare  or  sandalled  feet;  and  her  little  friend, 
Annie,  is  a  qualified  surgical  nurse  in  the  wards  of  a  city 
hospital. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXVI 


And  Prophecies 


One  evening  in  the  October  of  this  year,  Judith  sat  on  a 
hillock,  clothed  with  the  beautiful  sea-thistle  far  down  on 
the  yellow  sands  of  the  little  bay  inside  the  fiord  that  ran 
up  into  the  land  beneath  Dunkerrin  Castle.  She  swept 
the  sea-horizon  from  time  to  time  with  her  keen  eye;  but 
neither  ship,  nor  boat,  nor  yacht  was  visible.  She  mut- 
tered some  expressions  of  impatience ;  and  began  to  croon 
some  old  Romany  song,  and  mark  some  figures  on  the 
sands,  as  if  she  were  weaving  spells  for  an  enemy.  It  was 
a  lovely,  calm  evening  with  a  hush  upon  all  things,  except 
where  the  tide  washed  up  and  broke  upon  the  sands,  and 
troubled  here  and  there  a  tiny  shell  or  pebble.  The 
solemn  gray  of  October  hung  over  sky  and  rock  and  sea ; 
and  made  all  things  grave  and  sedate,  even  the  gulls  and 
sea-larks,  that  ceased  their  cries  as  they  poised  themselves 
over  the  still  deep,  or  scampered  in  and  out,  as  the  tide 
washed  clean  on  the  sands,  and  the  worms  pushed  up 
their  little  globules  and  hillocks  of  soft  sand  as  the  tide 
receded.  It  was  a  time  and  season  that  moved  to  medi- 
tation, or  that  most  supreme  self-engrossment  which  we 
call  sleep;  and  perhaps  Judith  had  gone  into  the  Land  of 
Dreams  when  Edward  Wycherly,  after  running  out  the 
anchor  of  his  yacht  in  the  soft  sands  near  the  shore,  shot 
his  little  punt  high  up  on  the  shelving  beach.  He  stepped 
lightly  ashore  and,  standing  silent  for  a  few  minutes  over 
the  silent  woman,  he  said: 

"I  thought  the  devil  never  slept,  nor  his  children." 
"There  is  sleep  and  sleep,"  she  said  without  lifting  her 
head  or  betraying  the  slightest  sign  of  surprise  or  emotion. 

263 


264  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"There  are  those  who  see  less  with  their  eyes  open  than 
Judith  sees  in  her  dreams." 

"Good  again!"  said  Wycherly,  smiling  pitifully  at  her. 
"Now  what  are  you  going  to  prophesy?  Is  there  a  fair- 
he  ired  woman  coming  over  the  sea? " 

"No!"  she  said  slowly,  still  drawing  lines  on  the  sand, 
"  But  a  black  hawk  sits  on  a  rock  and  he  is  still  watching 
the  dove.  He'll  never  strike  his  quarry;  nor  ever  return 
to  his  nest." 

Wycherly  saw  the  allusion  and  his  brow  darkened. 

"Speak  plainly,"  he  said,  angrily.  "These  things  are 
for  the  firesides  of  peasants." 

"He  stood  lightly  enough  on  my  lady's  wrist,"  she 
replied,  "whilst  he  was  leashed  and  hooded.  But  he 
hath  seen  the  white  dove  and  he  has  drawn  higher  and 
higher  circles  in  the  heavens  to  make  her  his  prey." 

"If  you  mean  that  any  of  these  poor  peasants  is  in 
danger,"  he  said,  "go  tell  the  priests." 

"Eagles  don't  catch  flies!"  she  said. 

"You  don't  like  the  priests,  Judith?"  he  answered  by 
way  of  interrogation. 

"  I  don't  dislike  them,"  she  said.     "  I  tolerate  them." 

"  Complimentary  to  the  cloth,"  he  said.  "  It  is  a  good 
joke.     I  must  remember  it." 

"All  the  strong  ones  of  the  earth  hate  them,"  she 
continued.  "All  the  weak  things  of  the  earth  lean  on 
and  love  them.     You  and  I  are  strong,  therefore  —  " 

"Who  is  the  black  hawk,  Judith?"  he  said  in  a  bland 
and  coaxing  manner. 

She  raised  her  hand  and,  pointing  her  long  forefinger 
to  the  west,  where  the  coast  bent  round  and  sheltered 
far  away  the  Coast  Guard  Station,  she  said: 

"  Don't  heed  the  dove,  but  mind  the  nest,"  she  replied. 
"  I  see  far  off  and  behind  the  future,  desolation  after  deso- 
lation. And  then,  from  behind  a  blood-red  cloud  and  a 
blinded  sun,  I  see  the  dove  return  and  settle  here  for- 
ever." 

"Happy  dove!"  he  said  laughingly.     "But  now  we'll 


II 


AND  PROPHECIES  265 

drop  the  Sybil,  if  you  please,  and  come  to  business.  Have 
you  or  Pete  heard  anything  from  yonder?" 

And  he  nodded  toward  the  west  where  the  Coast  Guard 
Station  lay. 

"No!"  she  said  languidly.     "Have  you?" 

"  I  have  heard  nothing,"  he  said, "  but  I  know  something. 
There's  a  traitor  somewhere.  We  have  to  be  careful 
now,  or  all  is  lost." 

"  You  have  been  talking  that  way  for  four  years, 
Edward  Wycherly,"  she  said,  "ever  since  the  day  you 
came  hither  from  your  ship.  Men  with  scorched  hands 
shouldn't  play  with  fire." 

"  You  mean  I'm  a  coward,"  he  said,  his  face  darkening 
in  the  twilight.  "  You're  wrong.  If  I  cared  to  tell,  I 
could  prove  it  to  you.  But,  just  now,  I  have  everything 
to  gain,  and  everything  to  lose;  and  one  needs  caution." 

"You  must  remember,"  she  said,  "Edward  Wycherly, 
that  you  came  into  this  business  on  your  own  invitation. 
We  didn't  ask  you  to  join  us.  Nay,  if  you  remember 
rightly,  we  were  somewhat  reluctant  about  it;  and  you 
resented  this,  and  —  you  threatened ! " 

He  knew  the  allusion,  and  blushed  beneath  his  sallow 
skin. 

"  You  threatened,"  she  continued,  "  —  you  remember 
what  you  threatened.  If  there  be  a  traitor,  let  him  be 
judged  out  of  his  own  mouth." 

"There,  Judith,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  want  to  offend 
you.  You  know  that;  but  your  southern  blood  is  hasty. 
But  you  know  how  I  stand  now.  The  fact  is,  I  am  anxious 
to  get  out  of  this  business.  'Tis  dangerous.  You  and 
Pete  have  nothing  to  lose;  I,  everything.  Just  now,  my 
father  is  tottering  into  his  grave;  and  all  this,"  he  swept 
his  hand  backward,  "is  mine.  My  name  is  already  gone 
before  the  Lord  Lieutenant  of  the  County  for  the  Com- 
mission of  the  Peace;  and  I  want  to  settle  down  —  " 

"And  bring  the  white  dove  hither,"  she  interrupted. 
"A  pretty  programme,  Edward  Wycherly;  but  there's 
many  a  pretty  plan  foiled  in  the  working." 


266  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  know  that!"  he  said,  furtively  looking  at  the  sinister 
face  of  the  woman.  "And  hence  I  want  a  fair  field.  I 
want  to  remove  the  obstructions,  one  by  one.  And  then, 
you  know,  Judith,  it  will  be  all  the  better  for  you  and 
Pete.  You,  too,  are  running  risks;  and,  after  all,  the  old 
castle  is  more  comfortable  than  the  County  Gaol.  Let 
us  clear  this  cargo,  bury  the  past,  and  settle  down  to  a 
decent  and  lawful  life.  You  and  Pete  may  be  sure,  you 
can  trust  me!" 

She  seemed  to  ponder  earnestly  over  the  question,  still 
drawing  lines  on  the  sands.  Then,  raising  her  head,  she 
looked  him  full  in  the  face,  and  said : 

"Settle  your  affairs  with  Pete,  Edward  Wycherly.  A 
woman's  brains  are  no  match  for  yours." 

"  Your  brains  are  more  than  a  match  for  any  man's," 
he  replied.  "  But  there  is  no  question  in  dispute  between 
us.  It  simply  amounts  to  this.  We  have  been  running 
risks  for  some  profits.  If,  as  I  suspect,  the  authorities 
have  got  wind  of  it,  they  will  watch  and  search;  and, 
even  though  we  may  foil  them  for  a  time,  they  will  succeed 
in  the  end.     That  means  ruin." 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  drily. 

"Then,  is  it  not  better  to  suspend  operations?  I  can 
make  up  the  loss  to  Pete." 

"How?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  you  see,"  he  answered  with  some  reluctance, 
"there  are  many  ways.  Pete  can  get  constant  employ- 
ment on  the  property.  We  can  get  Cora  into  the  house 
—  that  is,  if  she  and  you  care.  And  you  can  always 
have  a  home  here." 

"  One  would  like  —  I  mean  Pete  would  like  a  little 
better  security,"  she  replied. 

"Then,"  he  went  on,  apparently  not  noticing  the  re- 
mark, "old  Kerins  can't  stand.  He's  drinking  too  hard. 
Poor  devil,  he's  driven  to  it,  and  no  wonder.  No  man 
could  go  around,  day  by  day,  carrying  his  life  in  his  hand 
without  taking  to  drink.  He's  an  awful  fool  not  to  sell 
out  and  clear  off  to  America." 


AND  PROPHECIES  267 

"  But  you  were  saying,"  she  persisted,  "  that  old  Kerins 
can't  stand.     What  then?" 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said  uneasily,  "  you  know  the  Duggans 
have  no  chance.  They  cannot  buy  the  place  at  his  price. 
Someone  else  will  offer  —  " 

"Who?"  she  asked,  studying  his  features  closely. 

"  Well,  Pete  has  saved  enough  now  by  —  by  —  this 
business  to  offer  a  good  price." 

"And  settle  down  into  a  Gorgio  farmer?"  she  said, 
laughing.  "Not  likely,  Edward  Wycherly.  Think  of 
some  other  bribe,  and  offer  it  at  your  leisure  —  at  your 
leisure,"  she  repeated,  "to  the  little  father." 

He  ground  his  teeth  and  walked  away  sullenly,  cursing 
the  old  "  catamount "  and  —  himself  for  having  been 
betrayed  by  the  lust  of  wealth  into  courses  that  brought 
him  within  the  law,  and  within  the  terrible  power  of  these 
uncanny  heathens,  who,  he  knew,  would  sacrifice  him  at 
a  word  to  save  themselves.  How  often  he  wished  now 
that  he  had  cleared  out  this  gypsy  family  from  the  old 
castle;  and  how  often  he  regretted  the  steady  opposition 
to  the  parish  priest  he  had  inculcated  by  word  and  ex- 
ample amongst  the  rebellious  and  disaffected  in  the  dis- 
trict. It  seemed  too  late  now,  unless  in  some  mysterious 
manner  the  Fates  came  to  his  aid. 

He  entered  the  mansion,  now  practically  his  own,  with 
a  heavy  heart.  The  dinner  bell  was  rung;  but  he  seemed 
not  to  hear  it.  The  old  servitor,  clad  in  a  suit  of  faded 
black,  had  to  knock  at  his  bedroom  door  and  tell  him 
that  the  doctor  was  already  at  the  dinner-table.  He 
dressed  hastily  and  came  down. 

He  thought  the  dining-room  never  looked  so  gloomy. 
The  darkened  panels  and  ceiling  seemed  black  as  a  funeral 
pall;  the  silver  glinted  and  shone;  but  its  very  massiveness 
seemed  to  weigh  upon  his  spirits.  The  cloth  was  covered 
with  bunches  and  sprays  of  early  chrysanthemums  in 
all  their  varied  and  flaming  colours;  but  just  then  they 
seemed  to  mock  him  with  their  fragile  beauty.  It  was  a 
frugal  dinner,  as  the  old  doctor's  tastes  were  simple  — 


268  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

a  little  soup,  served  in  a  silver  tureen,  a  dish  of  steak  and 
several  dishes  of  vegetables.  Then  came  piles  of  rich 
autumnal  fruit  from  their  own  gardens  and  hothouses; 
and  biscuits  with  little  flakes  of  cheese  and  butter  lay 
on  highly-decorated  china,  old  and  cracked,  but  valuable 
to  the  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 

Edward  Wycherly  took  a  pear  and  ate  it  hastily.  Then 
he  swallowed  in  single  gulps  two  glasses  of  wine. 

His  father  pushed  away  his  plate  and  said  softly: 

*' Strange  I  haven't  heard  from  Dion  for  ever  so  long. 
He  wrote  punctually  the  first  weeks  he  was  at  sea;  but 
not  a  note  has  come  for  months.  I  fear  some  trouble. 
And  —  his  mother  came  to  me  in  my  dreams  last  night." 

"I  think  you  needn't  be  troubled,  sir,"  said  his  son. 
"His  ship,  I  think,  has  gone  round  the  Horn,  where  it 
is  always  blowing  big  guns;  and  probably  he  won't  touch 
at  port,  nor  have  a  chance  of  posting  a  letter  till  he  gets 
to  'Frisco." 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  his  father  uneasily,  "  I  have  got 
some  presentiment  about  the  boy.  And  then  —  his 
mother  came  to  me  in  sleep  last  night!" 

"I  remember,"  said  Edward  Wycherly,  "when  I  was 
rounding  the  Cape  in  the  Nevada,  we  had  to  lay  to  for 
days,  keeping  her  head  to  the  seas.  There  was  no  going 
forward  in  the  teeth  of  a  head-wind.  I  think  that  run 
took  a  good  six  months." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  the  father  dreamily,  "I  cannot 
shake  off  some  sense  of  danger.  It  is  strange  that  I 
shall  not  spend  my  old  age  in  peace.  Doesn't  a  man 
deserve  peace  in  his  declining  years?" 

"Of  course,  sir,"  replied  his  son.  "And  I  think  you 
are  needlessly  troubled.  You  may  be  sure  Dion  is  all 
right.     And  then,  he's  a  hardy  chap." 

"Ah,  yes!  no  fear  there,"  said  his  father  in  the  same 
moody  manner.  "No  fear  there!  Poor  Jack  is  the  one 
to  fear  there.  I  was  hoping  that  all  would  be  right. 
But  his  mother  came  to  me  in  sleep  last  night!" 

Edward  Wycherly  was  so  utterly  depressed  by  his 


AND  PROPHECIES  269 

own  thoughts  and  by  the  lugubrious  laments  and  fore- 
bodings of  his  father  that  he  felt  he  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
But  he  thought  it  was  his  duty  to  say  some  strengthen- 
ing words  to  his  father. 

"You  shouldn't  be  needlessly  fretting,  sir,"  he  said. 
"There's  no  fear  of  Jack.  A  year  or  two  more  and  he'll 
have  his  degree  and  then  he  can  look  around." 

Dr.  Wycherly  reached  to  the  mantelpiece  and  took 
down  a  letter  in  the  same  dreamy,  listless  manner  that 
characterized  all  his  actions. 

"Here  is  a  letter  that  came  this  morning,"  he  said, 
opening  it  and  reading:  'A  dear  friend  would  advise 
Doctor  Wycherly  to  remove  his  son  from  the  city  imme- 
diately. He  can  complete  his  studies  elsewhere.  This 
place  is  not  the  best  suited  to  the  interests  of  mind  or 
body.'" 

He  handed  the  note  to  Edward.  It  was  written  in  a 
disguised  hand  and  was,  of  course,  unsigned. 

"Some  fellow,"  he  said,  tossing  it  back,  "who  wants 
to  get  Jack  out  of  his  way  for  the  half-yearly  exam.  It 
is  quite  enough  that  the  letter  is  anonymous." 

"Quite  so!"  said  Dr.  Wycherly,  taking  back  the  letter 
and  folding  it.  "But  his  mother  came  to  me  in  my 
dreams  last  night!" 

"  I'm  not  much  of  a  preacher  or  a  consoler,"  said  his  son, 
"  but  I  have  often  heard  it  said  that  the  worst  misfortunes 
are  those  that  never  happen,  and  that  it  is  always  foolish 
to  anticipate  evils.  Now,  as  you  have  said,  you  have 
a  right  to  peace  after  your  long  and  laborious  life.  Where's 
the  use  then  in  fretting  about  fanciful  troubles?" 

He  had  a  keen  underthought  that  his  own  substantial 
troubles  might  very  soon  come  to  the  front. 

"  All  that  you  say  is  true,"  said  his  father  in  the  same 
lugubrious  manner.  "But  'coming  events  cast  their 
shadows  before.'  And  I  cannot  shake  off  the  impression. 
Your  mother  came  to  me  in  my  dreams  last  night ! " 

Edward  Wycherly  was  silent.  He  could  not  argue 
further.     Then  he  rose  and  went  out. 


270  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

He  had  not  gone  far  in  front  of  the  house  when  he 
heard  a  long  low  whistle.  He  knew  what  it  meant.  He 
passed  beyond  the  precincts  of  the  house,  and  Pete 
leaped  lightly  over  the  ditch. 

"The  lugger  is  in  the  offing,"  he  whispered.  "We 
have  no  time  to  lose." 

"All  right!"  said  Edward  Wycherly  in  a  tone  of 
despair.  "  Was  your  mother  speaking  to  you  of  our  con- 
versation?" 

"No!"  said  the  little  father  in  a  tone  of  surprise. 
"Shall  we  take  the  yacht  or  the  boat?" 

"How  goes  the  wind?" 

"  In  the  right  quarter,  blowing  gently  off  the  land." 

"How  will  the  night  be?" 

"Dark  as  hell.  The  quarter  moon  has  sunk  in  the 
sea." 

"All  right.  Get  ready  the  yacht  and  I  shall  be  with 
you  at  the  creek." 

He  turned  away,  but  he  had  gone  only  a  short  distance 
when  he  called  after  Pete. 

The  little  father  came  up  wondering. 

"Never  mind!"  said  Edward  Wycherly.  "Have  all 
things  ready  in  the  punt  and  I  shall  presently  be  with 
you." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

A  Stern  Chase 

Captain  Nesbit,  Chief  Coast  Guard  Officer  and  Inspector, 
sat  on  a  wicker  chair  outside  the  white  wall  that  sur- 
rounded the  Coast  Guard  Station.  This  was  his  fourth 
visit  within  a  few  months.  He  was  much  disturbed  in 
mind  this  evening.  He  indicated  it  by  biting  his  nails 
and  looking  anxiously  and  angrily  across  the  heaving 
waters.  The  truth  was  that  he  had  been  reprimanded 
severely  from  headquarters.  He  had  been  sent  down  to 
ferret  out  and  destroy  a  nest  of  smugglers  that  were 
hidden  somewhere  along  the  western  coast,  and  he  had 
ignominiously  failed.  Every  effort  had  been  thwarted, 
and  he  had  long  since  fallen  back  on  the  belief  that  the 
authorities  had  been  hoaxed.  In  this  view  he  was  con- 
firmed by  the  belief  of  his  men,  who  assured  him  that 
the  thing  was  quite  impossible  in  these  days  of  vigilance 
and  circumspection,  when  the  whole  coast  from  station 
to  station  could  be  swept  by  the  long  glasses  of  the  men; 
and  when  a  diver  could  not  cross  the  horizon  without 
being  noticed.  But  here  were  his  peremptory  orders. 
Clearly,  the  revenue  authorities  believed  that  something 
illegal  was  in  progress,  and  he  it  was  who  should  seek  it 
out  and  destroy  it. 

He  lit  a  cigarette  just  as  the  dusk  of  evening  fell  and, 
after  a  few  minutes'  reflection,  he  called  over  Pelham,  a 
shrewd,  cautious  Englishman  who  had  been  warrant- 
officer  in  the  service  and  who  was  now  in  charge  of  the 
station. 

"Any  news,  Pelham?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"None,  sir!"  said  Pelham,  saluting. 

271 


272  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Were  the  men  out  last  night?" 

"  Yes,  sir.     I  myself  was  in  charge." 

"How  far  did  you  go?" 

"  Six  miles  to  the  west,  where  we  ambushed  in  a  creek. 
Then  we  pulled  out  to  sea  and  skirted  the  coast  down  to 
Redcarn." 

"And  saw  nothing?" 

"Not  a  sail,  nor  an  oar,  sir,  except  Mr.  Wycherly's 
Water-Witch." 

"You  didn't  follow  her?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Pelhani,  looking  with  surprise  at  his 
officer.  "Mr.  Wycherly,  sir,  is  the  young  gentleman 
at  Rohira  —  an  ex-naval  hofficer." 

Nesbit  was  silent.     He  thought  long  and  earnestly. 

"We  have  swept  every  inch  of  the  coast,"  he  said  at 
length,  "up  from  Waterford,  and  down  again  from  Kin- 
sale.  If  there's  anything  wrong,  I  don't  see  how  it  could 
have  escaped  us.  But  —  can  that  boat  well  carry  a 
sail?" 

"  Yes,  sir,  if  we  manage  careful  and  the  wind  lies  low." 

"All  right.     When  does  the  moon  set?" 

"Sets  early,  sir.     It  will  be  pitch-dark  at  ten." 

"So  much  the  better.  Have  the  boat  and  four  men 
ready  at  half -past  nine.     And  bring  your  arms." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  said  Pelham,  saluting.  But  he  lingered 
round. 

"Any  suggestions,  Pelham?"  the  officer  asked,  notic- 
ing his  hesitation. 

"No,  sir!  But  that  gypsy  woman  comes  around  here 
pretty  often;  and  I  don't  like  her  tampering  with  the 
men  and  fooling  the  women." 

"Certainly  not,"  said  Captain  Nesbit.  "You  must 
sternly  forbid  her  coming  near  the  station  again.  When 
was  she  here  last?" 

"  I  think  she  was  here  this  hafternoon,  sir,"  said  Pelham. 

"Is  this  one  of  the  gypsies  at  the  castle?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  remember  me  telling  you  about  them 
at  your  last  inspection?" 


I 


A  STERN  CHASE  273 

"Yes,  I  do,"  said  the  officer,  reflecting.  "Has  that 
apparition  been  seen  since?" 

"Oh,  yes,  sir!"  said  the  man.  "It  is  quite  a  usual 
thing,  especially  on  moonlight  nights!" 

"And  you  think  still  that  these  people  get  out  this 
property-ghost  to  please  the  old  doctor?" 

"I  do,  sir,"  said  Pelham.     "The  men  don't." 

"Then  they  believe  it  is  a  real  ghost?"  he  asked  in 
amazement. 

"Some  do,  sir,  and  they  are  thoroughly  frightened. 
Some  are  doubtful.  I  tells  them  that  these  gypsies  are 
simply  trying  to  please  the  old  man,  so  that  he  may  not 
disturb  them.  The  young  master  wanted  to  clear  them 
out  long  ago,  but  the  doctor  would  not  allow  him." 

"  What?  Do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Wycherly  was  anxious 
to  remove  these  people?     Have  you  heard  that?" 

"Yes,  sir.  Judith  has  mentioned  it  again  and  again 
to  our  people.  And  she  says  they  can  defy  him,  so  long 
as  the  old  master  lives." 

"Another  theory  knocked  on  the  head,"  muttered 
Nesbit  to  himself.  "All  right,  Pelham.  I'll  have  some 
tea  at  nine  o'clock,  and  have  the  men  ready  as  I've  said." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir!"  said  Pelham,  saluting  and  entering  the 
station  again. 

When  the  moon  had  set,  the  men  got  out  their  long 
boat  and  pulled  silently  into  the  deep.  Outside  the 
shelter  of  the  land,  when  the  light  wind  caught  them, 
they  hoisted  a  sail  and  moved  noiselessly  in  a  direct  line 
southward  from  the  shore.  Nesbit  steered.  They  car- 
ried no  lights,  but  a  dark  lantern  was  hidden  beneath 
the  seats.  When  they  had  sailed  three  or  four  miles 
from  shore,  they  veered  round  and,  altering  their  course, 
sailed  in  an  easterly  direction  and  almost  parallel  with 
the  coast.  The  men  kept  a  good  lookout;  but  it  was 
weary  work  and  waiting;  and  after  a  time  they  lowered 
the  sail  and  lay  to.  It  might  have  been  an  hour  from 
midnight  when  the  lookout  whispered: 
19 


274  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"A  sail  to  the  windward,  sir!     Keep  her  helm  steady!" 

And  Nesbit  had  hardly  time  to  grip  the  rudder-ropes 
when  the  full  wing  of  the  Water-Witch  swept  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  coast  guard  boat  and  vanished  in  the 
darkness,  leaving  a  white  wake  behind.  "  Hoist  the  sail 
at  once,  Pelham,"  shouted  Nesbit,  "and  after  her.  By 
Jove,  that  was  a  close  shave.  Keep  in  her  wake  and 
tack  if  you  come  too  near!" 

'"Tis  the  Water-Witch,  sir  — Mr.  Wycherly's  boat," 
said  Pelham. 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  Nesbit,  somewhat  impa- 
tiently. 

" By  the  cut  of  her  sail,  sir!"  the  man  answered.  " I'm 
sure  'tis  the  Water-Witch.     Isn't  it,  Orpen?" 

"I  think  so,"  said  one  of  the  men,  who  was  pulling 
the  sail-ropes  through  their  pulleys.  "There's  no  other 
yacht  around  here,  except  Wycherly's." 

"Never  mind!"  said  Nesbit.  "Keep  after  her.  If  we 
can  overhaul  her,  no  harm's  done!" 

Then  commenced  a  race  upon  the  midnight  waters; 
and  there  was  no  rivalry,  only  the  anger  of  the  pursued 
and  the  zeal  of  the  pursuers.  For  Edward  Wycherly 
felt  now  that  the  authority  of  England  was  on  his  track, 
and  he  shook  out  every  bit  of  canvas  his  little  yacht 
could  bear  until  her  pennant  almost  dipped  in  the  seas.  He 
guessed  at  once  why  and  wherefore  he  was  pursued;  and 
he  determined  to  give  them  a  night  of  it.  "  But  a  last 
night,"  he  muttered  so  that  Pete  could  not  hear  him. 
There  was  a  faint  starlight  on  the  waters;  and  far  down  in 
the  west  a  reflection  from  the  sunken  moon.  Now  and 
again  Nesbit  could  see  the  white  swallow-wing  flashing 
in  the  darkness;  and  Wycherly  watched  the  broad  sail 
that  came  lumbering  along  in  his  wake.  But  it  was  swan 
against  swallow.  The  Water-Witch  sprang,  as  if  to  the 
voice  of  her  master,  over  the  curdling  waves,  and  down 
dark  hollows;  and  in  less  than  half  an  hour  she  was  be- 
yond the  sight  or  reach  of  her  pursuers.  She  was  then 
far  out  at  sea;  and  a  great  dark  object  loomed  up  on  her 


A  STERN  CHASE  275 

lee  side  and  a  flash,  so  faint  that  only  expectant  eyes 
could  see  it,  lit  up  the  waters  for  a  moment.  Wycherly 
put  down  his  helm  and  glided  under  her  stern;  and 
answered  in  reply  to  a  muffled  "Boat  ahoy!": 

"Quick!  Put  her  round  and  hoist  every  stitch  of 
canvas.     The  coast  guards  are  at  hand!" 

He  made  the  circuit  of  the  schooner  repeating  his 
orders  and  then  flew  back  to  where  the  coast  guard  boat 
was  still  lumbering  through  the  waves,  drew  it  completely 
out  of  the  track  of  the  smuggler  and  into  his  own  creek 
beneath  Dunkerrin  Castle,  pulled  down  his  sail,  got  Pete 
out  in  the  punt,  and  awaited  events. 

Nesbit  in  the  eagerness  of  his  pursuit,  and  forgetting 
altogether  that  he  was  only  acting  upon  suspicion,  almost 
ran  his  boat  upon  the  rocks.  Yet  he  dreaded  from 
lack  of  power  or  lack  of  evidence  to  proceed  further. 
Wycherly  challenged: 

"That  you,  Pelham?" 

"Yes,  sir!"  said  Pelham.  "Captain  Nesbit  is  on 
board." 

"You  have  had  a  hard  run.  Did  you  take  me  for  a 
smuggler?" 

"No,  sir.     But  —  " 

Here  he  seemed  to  consult  his  officer. 

"Mr.  Nesbit,  sir,  would  like  to  know  what  you  were 
doing  out  on  the  deep  seas  at  such  an  hour." 

"Tell  Mr.  Nesbit  that  that  is  my  own  affair.  I  shall 
go  and  come  upon  the  high  seas  at  my  pleasure." 

"Oh,  of  course,  sir!     Meant  no  offence,  sir,  I'm  sure." 

But  Nesbit  had  drawn  in  his  boat  till  she  glided  almost 
stern  to  stern  with  the  yacht;  and  with  the  dark  lantern 
he  threw  a  yellow  glare  across  the  deck  of  the  boat.  It 
revealed  nothing.  But  Wycherly  affected  the  fury  of 
insulted  innocence. 

"If  you  are  not  satisfied,  sir,"  he  said,  glowering  down 
upon  Nesbit,  "with  your  most  impertinent  examina- 
tion of  my  boat,  you  are  at  liberty  to  come  aboard. 
And,  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  that,  you  can  bring 


276  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

your  men   up   to  my   father's   house  and  pursue   your 
investigations  there." 

"  You  have  been  an  officer,  Mr.  Wycherly,"  said  Nesbit, 
half  ashamed  but  yet  suspicious,  "  and  you  know  that  an 
officer  has  duties  to  perform  which  are  sometimes 
unpleasant." 

"Quite  so!"  said  Wycherly,  seeing  that  he  had  now 
the  victory.  "It  is  because  I  recognize  the  call  of  duty 
that  I  invite  you  to  a  further  search,  so  that  you  should 
be  perfectly  satisfied." 

"It  is  late!"  said  Nesbit,  consulting  his  watch,  but 
still  eagerly  scanning  every  corner  of  the  yacht  under 
the  yellow  glare  of  the  lantern.  "  And  besides,  no  sus- 
picion can  attach  to  you,  Mr.  Wycherly.  In  fact,  I 
should  be  disposed  to  call  upon  you  to  help  in  our  search 
for  smugglers  along  this  coast." 

"Then  you  believe  that  smuggling  is  going  on?"  asked 
Wycherly. 

"Well,  so  it  is  reported,"  said  Nesbit.  "But  perhaps 
I  could  see  you  again  at  a  more  opportune  time  and  we 
could  discuss  the  matter  together." 

"Certainly!  I  shall  be  most  happy,"  said  Wycherly. 
"  Meanwhile,  you  will  allow  me  to  throw  out  my  anchor. 
There!" 

"Well,^  good  night!"  said  Nesbit.  "And  a  more 
pleasant  introduction  next  time." 

And  the  boat  swung  round  under  the  strong  arms  of 
the  men  and  vanished  in  the  darkness. 

In  a  few  seconds  the  little  punt,  guided  by  Pete,  glided 
out  and  ran  alongside  the  yacht,  and  the  two  men  stepped 
ashore.  Pete  remained  behind,  tying  up  the  boat;  but 
Wycherly  went  forward  and  strode  into  the  Witch's 
cave. 

A  dark  lantern  was  faintly  smoking  in  a  corner.  Against 
the  dim  light  and  faintly  outlined  against  the  irregular, 
arched  entrance,  like  a  statue  in  a  niche,  was  the  tall 
form  of  Judith.  She  stood  still  and  almost  unbreathing, 
her  hood  covering  her  head  and  her  hands  folded  beneath 


I 


A  STERN  CHASE  277 

her  cloak.  The  tide  washed  over  the  weed-fringed  rock 
and  lapped  her  bare  feet,  for  the  gypsy  preferred  to  go 
barefoot  at  all  times.  Not  a  sound  broke  the  stillness 
until  she  said: 

''Well?" 

"It  was  a  close  shave  this  time,"  he  said.  "They  are 
on  our  track  at  last." 

"The  owl  is  heading  the  hawk,"  she  said.  "It  is 
unpleasant.     Do  they  suspect  Crapaud?" 

"Hardly,  I  think,"  he  said  wearily.  "But  it  cannot 
remain  a  secret.  The  revenue  cutter  may  be  here  in  a 
week." 

"Buy  off  Pelham!"  she  said. 

"Nonsense!"  he  replied.  "That  is,  give  everything 
away  and  betray  ourselves!" 

"  Every  man  has  his  price ! "  she  said.  "  If  we  had 
only  a  free  hand  for  six  months  more,  we  could  retire." 

"Six  months!  Three  months!  One  month!  To-night! 
I'm  done  with  the  matter  from  this  moment  and  will  take 
the  consequences." 

"Very  good,  Edward  Wycherly!"  she  said.  "The 
consequences  may  be  much,  or  little.  But  what  shall  be 
done  with  the  stuff  already  on  our  hands?" 

"  You  and  Pete  dispose  of  it,  as  you  please!"  he  replied. 

"  You  claim  no  share?  " 

"None!  I  simply  want  to  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  the  nefarious  business." 

"Very  good!"  she  replied.  "Edward  Wycherly,  it 
is  not  men  like  you  that  win  empires." 

"I  suppose  not!"  he  said,  turning  away. 

"Come,  little  father!"  she  cried,  accosting  Pete.  "The 
night  waxes  late!" 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 


A  School  Inquiry 


The  burning  of  Kerins's  hay-rick  on  the  night  of  the 
concert  did  not  improve  matters  in  the  parish.  Kerins 
at  once  appUed  to  the  necessary  authorities  for  compen- 
sation; and  he  was  awarded  a  large  sum,  more  than  suffi- 
cient to  cover  his  losses,  and  it  was  levied  exclusively  on 
the  parish.  The  rate  fell  heavily  on  the  farmers  around; 
and,  although  it  was  quite  impossible  to  blame  Kerins  for 
defending  himself,  yet  the  taxation  was  so  heavy  that 
each  felt  he  had  a  grievance  against  Kerins  personally,  so 
utterly  unreasoning  are  men  where  their  moneyed  inter- 
ests are  concerned.  He  became  therefore  more  widely 
unpopular  than  ever  in  the  parish;  and  Dr.  Gray,  the 
parish  priest,  who  had  denounced  the  outrage  in  un- 
measured terms  from  the  altar,  shared  his  unpopularity. 
But  somehow  now  the  latter  had  begun  to  heed  such  things 
less  than  ever.  He  had  turned  away  his  face  from  the 
noise  and  battling  of  men  and  was  striving  with  all  his 
might  for  eternity.  Annie's  departure,  too,  so  mysteri- 
ous and  unintelligible,  seemed  to  snap  the  last  link  in 
the  chain  of  human  sympathies  that  bound  him  to  earth. 
The  great  gap  which  her  absence  created  had  closed  up, 
although  he  still  retained  his  deep  affection  for  her;  and 
she  was  still  in  the  habit  of  spending  her  holidays  with 
him,  and  an  occasional  Sunday  when  she  was  off  duty. 
But  the  intervals  were  not  too  dreary;  and  if  his  sight 
had  not  been  growing  more  impaired  under  the  steady 
progress  of  the  disease,  he  could  say  that  the  evening 
of  his  life  was  the  best,  and  that  he  could  anticipate  the 
peace  of  eternity.     But  there  were  hours  and  days  of 

278 


A  SCHOOL  INQUIRY  279 

deep  melancholy,  when  he  felt  absolutely  alone  and  when 
his  books  could  be  no  solace,  and  now  he  had  to  fall  back 
on  the  benevolence  of  his  curate  for  society  and  the  spirit- 
ual offices  of  his  caUing. 

He  had  got  from  Rome  a  dispensation  to  say  the  Mass  of 
the  Blessed  Virgin  each  morning,  instead  of  the  Mass  of  the 
day.  This  was  a  great  favour  and  shed  its  blessedness  and 
sweetness  across  many  weary  hours.  But  he  was  obliged 
by  his  growing  blindness  to  abandon  the  daily  Office;  and, 
although  he  had  again  received  a  dispensation  from  that 
daily  duty,  he  felt  the  tremendous  loss  of  such  hourly 
communication  with  the  Infinite  through  the  transcen- 
dent beauty  of  the  Psalms  and  Lessons  of  the  Office.  For 
a  long  time  he  bore  the  privation  in  silence.  Then  a  few 
times  he  murmured  in  the  presence  of  his  curate.  And 
one  day  Henry  Liston,  in  the  fervour  of  pity  and  self-sacri- 
fice, volunteered  to  come  down  every  day  after  noon  and 
go  over,  verse  by  verse,  the  daily  Office  with  his  pastor, 
reading  it  in  choro,  and  thus  fulfilling  his  own  obliga- 
tion at  the  same  time.  He  did  not  quite  understand  the 
burden"  and  the  trial  he  was  assuming.  But  he  perse- 
vered grandly,  and  it  was  the  source  of  numberless  helps 
and  graces  to  himself. 

It  was  a  noble  act  too,  because  he  had  to  bear  with  the 
imperiousness  and  fretfulness  of  the  old  man  and  because 
he  had  already  witnessed  one  or  two  painful  scenes 
just  before  the  darkness  had  closed  down  on  the  pastor's 
eyes,  and  he  could  no  longer  leave  home,  except  for  the 
short  journey  to  the  church. 

The  worst  of  these  scenes  had  taken  place  a  few  months 
after  Mary  Liston  had  become  a  religious  and  Annie  had 
gone  for  training  as  a  nurse.  The  pastor  had  driven  over 
to  the  schools  at  Athboy  to  assist  at  an  investigation. 
It  had  been  reported  to  the  Commissioners  of  Education 
that  Carmody,  the  assistant-teacher  and  nephew  of  the 
hated  Kerins,  had  used  some  children  cruelly.  And  this 
was  set  down  to  personal  hatred  and  dislike  toward  the 
children  on  account  of  the  attitude  of  their  parents.     It 


280  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

was  a  manifest  calumny,  but  the  Commissioners  deemed 
it  a  subject  for  inquiry,  and  accordingly  ordered  the 
Inspector  of  the  district  to  hold  a  formal  investigation. 
Fortunately,  he  was  an  experienced  man  and  perfectly 
understood  human  methods  of  reasoning  when  personal 
interests  are  at  stake.  He  requested  the  manager's 
presence,  and  the  latter  and  his  curate  attended.  The 
inquiry  was  formally  opened  by  a  brief  speech  and  the 
prosecutor  was  called  to  give  evidence.  She  was  the 
mother  of  one  of  the  children. 

"  I'm.  a  poor  widda,  your  honour,"  she  said,  "  an'  sure 
the  poor  have  no  frinds  now." 

She  cast  a  withering  look  on  the  parish  priest  and 
went  on  — 

"I've  only  a  small  little  holdin'  an'  I'm  only  milkin' 
two  cows  (their  calves  died  last  spring) ;  but  if  I'm  poor, 
I'm  honest,  an'  no  wan  can  say  that  he  has  the  black  of 
his  nail  agin  me." 

"I'm  quite  sure,"  said  the  Inspector  mildly,  "my 
good  woman,  that  all  you  say  is  correct;  but  it  has  nothing 
to  say  to  the  subject  of  this  inquiry.  I  must  ask  you  to 
keep  close  to  that." 

"An'  I  am,  your  honour,"  she  said,  "I'm  comin'  to  it; 
but  you  must  lave  me  tell  me  shtory  me  own  way,  or  I've 
no  bisniss  comin'  here  at  all." 

"  You  must  remember,"  said  the  Inspector,  "  that  it 
was  you  solicited  the  inquiry  and  formulated  certain 
charges  against  this  teacher  —  " 

"An'  good  right  I  had,  the  blagard,"  she  said.  "An' 
how  could  he  be  good,  wid  the  black  dhrop  in  him  from 
two  sides.  Sure  ivry  wan  knows  that  the  Carmodys 
were  a  bad  lot;  an'  as  for  the  Kerins  —  " 

"  Now  look  here,  my  good  woman,"  said  the  Inspector, 
"I  have  not  come  hither  to  hear  about  family  virtues 
nor  failings  —  " 

"Vartues?"  she  cried  scornfully.  "Faith,  thin,  you 
needn't  come  inquirin'  afther  their  vartues.  It  would 
be  like  hunting  for  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  sthraw." 


A  SCHOOL  INQUIRY  281 

"All  right!"  said  the  Inspector.  "Now  come  to  the 
point!     What  is  your  charge  against  this  teacher?" 

"That  he  bate  and  ill-thrated  me  child,"  she  said, 
sobbing,  "  that's  without  his  father  to  protect  him.  Ah, 
you  ruffian,"  she  said,  turning  to  the  unhappy  teacher 
and  shaking  her  fist  at  him,  "if  Mike  Ryan  wasn't  over 
there  in  his  cowld  grave  this  blessed  and  holy  day,  'tis 
you'd  be  laughing  at  the  other  side  of  your  mouth,  you 
ugly  bodach!  'Tis  a  nice  thing  to  have  the  childhre  of 
dacent  parents  in  the  parish  taught  by  the  hkes  of  you!" 

"Very  good  now,"  said  the  Inspector;  "but,  Mr.  Car- 
mody,  this  is  a  serious  matter  for  you.  I  don't  think 
there's  occasion  for  laughter." 

"I  assure  you,  sir!"  said  Carmody,  stepping  forward, 
"that  so  far  from  laughing,  I  am  greatly  pained  by  the 
statements  of  this  woman!" 

"Woman!"  she  cried.  "Who  do  ye  call  'woman,' 
you  cawbogue?  I  wouldn't  demane  meself  by  comparing 
me  family  wid  yours  —  " 

"  Look  now,  look  now,"  said  the  Inspector  in  despair, 
"this  must  stop,  or  I  shall  be  here  till  Doomsday  —  " 

"I  assure  you,  Mr.  ,"   said  the  parish  priest, 

unwisely  breaking  in,  "that  I  have  been  watching  the 
whole  proceedings,  and  so  far  from  Mr.  Carmody's  laugh- 
ing at  this  poor  woman,  he  appears  to  be  deeply  affected 
by  the  situation." 

"Av  coorse,  av  coorse,  3-er  reverence,"  said  Mrs.  Ryan, 
making  a  profound  curtsey  to  her  pastor,  which  she  in- 
tended to  be  killingly  sarcastic,  "  you  must  take  the  part 
of  the  grabber,  as  ushal.  Every  wan  knows  that  you 
are  agin  the  people,  and  always  wos,  ever  since  you  sot 
foot  in  the  parish.  But  there's  a  good  God  above  us 
to-night  —  " 

"Look  here,  Missus,"  said  the  Inspector,  taking  out 
his  watch,  "  there's  already  half  an  hour  gone  by,  and  I'm 
not  nearer  the  subject  of  this  inquiry.  If  this  is  to  go 
on  —  " 

"Yerra,  an'  who's  shtoppin'  yer   honour?"   she  said. 


282  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Sure  I'm  not  to  blame.  But  ye  won't  listen  to  a  poor 
'uman  who  has  no  wan  but  herself  and  the  great  God 
to  look  afther  her  little  childhre.  Sure,  you  have  only 
to  ask  me  anything  you  wants  to  know  and  I'll  tell  you 
the  thruth  the  same  as  if  I  was  on  me  Bible  oath." 

This  seemed  to  clear  matters  a  little  and  the  Inspector 
said  calmly  and  encouragingly: 

"Very  good.  Now  that's  quite  reasonable.  I'm  sure 
you're  a  truthful  and  honourable  woman  —  " 

"  Ah  thin,  your  honour,  if  poor  Father  Ned  Mahony  was 
here,  'tis  he  could  tell  you  all  about  me  —  me  poor  dead 
priesht,  that  had  the  feel  for  his  people." 

"Very  good!  that's  very  consoling!"  said  the  Inspec- 
tor. "  But  now  come  to  the  point.  You  say  this  teacher 
treated  your  child  inhumanly?" 

"He  did,  your  honour;  an'  I've  plinty  to  prove  it." 

"All  right.  But  before  we  proceed  to  proofs,  in  what 
exactly  did  the  cruelty  or  unnecessary  punishment  con- 
sist?    Did  he  beat  the  child  unnecessarily,  or  what?" 

"Bate  the  child?  Yerra,  sure  he's  always  batin'  'em. 
He  bates  'em  whin  he's  cowld  to  get  up  the  hate  in  his 
blood;  and  he  bates  'em  whin  he's  hot  to  cool  off  his  anger. 
He  bates  them  whin  his  stummuck  is  full  of  mate;  an' 
whin  he  has  only  cowld  praties  and  salt  ling  for  his  dinner 
on  Fridays,  he's  the  d —  out  an'  out ! " 

"Very  good.  Then  you  have  noticed  some  marks  of 
violence  on  the  child's  person?" 

"Vilence?  Why,  all  his  little  body  is  black  and  blue 
from  the  batin'  sometimes;  and  sure  'tisn't  a  month 
ago  whin  he  kim  home  wid  his  little  nose  dhropping 
blood  like  a  stuck  calf,  and  wan  of  his  eyes  as  big  as  a 
turnip." 

"Ajid  do  you  connect  that  with  the  teacher?  Do  you 
mean  to  say  that  the  teacher  used  your  boy  in  such  a 
brutal  manner?" 

"I  do,  your  honour,"  she  said  boldly.  "You  can  ax 
the  child  yerself  and  see  what  he  says." 

"Very    good!"    said   the   Inspector,   writing   rapidly. 


A  SCHOOL  INQUIRY  283 

"And  now,  before  I  proceed  to  the  evidence,  have  you 
any  other  specific  charges  to  make?" 

"Isn't  it  enough  what  I've  said,"  she  shouted,  "to  get 
him  thransported  for  life?  Yerra,  what  more  do  you 
want,  only  to  take  him  now  by  the  showlder  and  put 
him  outside  the  dure?" 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  said  the  Inspector.  "But  these  are 
all  the  specific  charges  you  make?" 

"  Oh,  as  for  that,"  she  replied,  "  I  could  bring  a  hundred 
more  av  I  liked.  I  could  tell  you  how  he  makes  the  poor 
childhre  kneel  in  their  bare  shins  on  the  edge  of  a  furrum 
that  is  as  sharp  es  a  razhure  —  " 

"You  must  confine  your  charges  to  any  violence  in- 
flicted on  your  own  child,"  said  the  Inspector,  "Now, 
do  you  assert  that  the  child  was  compelled  to  kneel,  as 
you  say,  and  for  what  space  of  time?" 

"  Well,  I'm  only  saying  what  everybody  does  be  saying," 
she  replied.  "  Sure  'tis  the  common  talk  of  the  parish 
from  ind  to  ind  —  " 

"Very  good.  Now,  we'll  take  evidence.  Where's 
your  boy?" 

Patsy  Ryan,  a  stout,  ruddy  lad,  was  summoned,  and 
took  his  place,  not  without  some  trepidation,  before  the 
tribunal. 

"  Shpake  up  now  to  the  gintleman.  Patsy,"  said  his 
mother  encouragingly,  "and  don't  be  afraid  to  tell  the 
thruth  over  right  the  prieshts." 

"What's  your  name?"  inquired  the  Inspector. 

"Patsy  R}Tie,  sor,"  said  the  boy,  rubbing  his  hands 
nervously  on  his  breeches. 

"Very  good.  Patsy.     How  old  are  you?" 

"Sure,  he'll  be  eight,  come  Michaelmas,"  put  in  his 
mother,  "and  sure  more  betoken,  'twas  the  night  of 
the  tundher  and  light nin',  whin  we  thought  the  ind  of  the 
wurruld  was  comin'." 

"Very  good.  What  book  are  you  reading.  Patsy?" 
said  the  Inspector. 

"  Furst  Book,  sor ! "  was  the  reply. 


284  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"You're  a  big  boy  and  should  be  beyond  the  First 
Book,"  said  the  Inspector. 

"An'  sure  he  would,  your  honour,  in  any  other  school 
in  the  wurruld.  But  what  can  the  childhre  learn  with  a 
pizawn  hke  that,"  pointing  to  Carmody,  "who'd  rather 
be  oilin'  his  hair  an'  gaHvantin'  wid  the  girls  —  " 

"Now,  now,  Mrs.  Ryan,"  said  the  Inspector,  "this 
won't  do!  I  gave  you  full  latitude  and  you  must  now 
keep  silence,  please,  while  I  examine  your  son." 

"All  right,  your  honour,"  she  replied.  "I'm  not  goin' 
to  say  another  word,  Iss,  Aye,  or  No!" 

"Now,  Patsy,"  continued  the  Inspector,  "have  you 
ever  been  punished  by  the  teacher?" 

"I  have,  sor,"  said  Patsy. 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  was  shlapped,  sor,"  said  the  boy. 

"On  the  hand?" 

"Yes,  sor!"  said  Patsy,  rubbing  his  hands  harder  on 
his  breeches,  as  if  he  was  anxious  to  wipe  out  the  very 
memory  of  the  pain. 

"What  did  the  teacher  slap  you  with?" 

"Wid  the  shlapper,  sor,"  said  Patsy. 

"Get  me  that  slapper,"  said  the  Inspector  to  Carmody. 

The  instrument  of  torture  was  put  on  the  table. 

"Is  that  it?"  said  the  Inspector. 

Patsy  eyed  it  ruefully,  still  rubbing  his  hands.  He 
suspected  it  was  about  to  be  requisitioned  again.  But 
he  recognized  his  old  acquaintance. 

"'Tis,  sor!"  he  replied. 

"Were  you  ever  punished  with  any  other  instrument?" 

"  Wha'?"  said  Patsy.  These  big  words  were  too  much 
for  him. 

"Did  the  teacher  beat  you  with  anything  else?"  was 
the  modified  question. 

"No,  sor!"  said  Patsy. 

"But  your  mother  says  you  have  had  marks  or  weals 
on  your  body." 

"  Black  and  blue,  your  honour,  an'  all  the  colours  of  the 


A  SCHOOL  INQUIRY  285 

rainbow.  Who  marked  you,  agragalf  Who  bate  you 
about  the  legs  and  arrums?"  said  his  mother. 

"Billy  Fitz,  your  honour,"  said  Patsy.  "He  does  be 
kicking  me  ondher  the  desk.  But  he  isn't  me  match, 
and  whin  I  grows  up  I'll  lick  the  d — ■  out  of  him." 

"There's  the  tachin'  now  they're  gettin',  your  honour," 
said  his  mother.  "  There's  the  tachin'  goin'  on  in  this  school. 
Shure  they  might  as  well  be  among  blacks  or  haythens." 

"I  see,"  said  the  Inspector  gravely.  "But,  my  boy, 
you  went  home  one  evening  from  school  with  your  nose 
bleeding  and  your  eyes  swollen.  Was  it  the  teacher 
punished  you?" 

"'Twas  not!"  said  Patsy.  "'Twas  Billy  Fitz  agin; 
but  whin  I'm  growed  up  —  " 

"Yes,  yes!"  said  the  Inspector  hastily.  "I  under- 
stand. Then  why  did  you  tell  your  mother  that  it  was 
the  teacher  that  ill-used  you?" 

"'Twas  Dicky  Duggan  made  me,  sor,"  said  Patsy. 

"Who  is  Dicky  Duggan?" 

"Ohj  thin,  wan  of  the  dacentest  and  quitest  byes  in 
the  parish,"  broke  in  his  mother.  "A  good  nabor  an'  a 
kind  frind  to  the  widda  and  the  orfin.  Sure  'tis  he  ploughs 
me  little  haggart  for  me  every  spring  and  gives  me  the 
seed  for  the  praties." 

"Then  you  told  a  lie  to  your  mother,"  continued  the 
Inspector,  "when  you  said  it  was  Mr,  Carmody  that  ill- 
used  you?" 

Patsy  was  silent.  His  warlike  ardour  against  Billy 
Fitz  had  evaporated.  He  rubbed  his  breeches  in  a  ner- 
vous and  melancholy  manner. 

"  You  told  a  He?  "  persisted  the  Inspector. 

"Av  coorse,  he  did,"  replied  the  mother.  "How  could 
he  tell  anythin'  else  wid  the  tachin'  they're  gettin'  here? 
Sure  how  can  they  be  good  or  graceful  wid  a  blagard  like 
that  over  'em?" 

"I  think  that  closes  the  evidence!"  said  the  Inspector. 
"Just  one  word  more.  Were  you  ever  put  kneeling  on  a 
form  or  desk,  Patsy?" 


286  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  was,  spr!"  said  Patsy. 

"Just  kneel  up  there.     Let  me  see  how  you  knelt  1" 

And  Patsy  knelt  comfortably  on  the  seat  and  leaned 
rather  luxuriously  on  the  desk. 

"That  will  do!"  said  the  Inspector.  And  Patsy  re- 
tired with  much  satisfaction. 

The  Principal  of  the  School  was  summoned. 

"  Have  you  ever  noticed  any  undue  or  harsh  treatment 
of  the  children  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Carmody?" 

"Never,  sir!  He  is  very  kind  and  gentle  with  the 
children." 

"  Begor,"  said  Mrs.  Ryan,  talking  to  an  imaginary  and 
sympathetic  audience  on  the  ceiling,  "that's  a  quare 
question.  As  if  they  wouldn't  stick  together  like  pick- 
pockets." 

"Mr.  Carmody!" 

"Yes,  sir!" 

"You  have  heard  this  —  ahem!  woman's  evidence,  or 
rather  her  specific  charges  against  you.  Have  you  any 
observations  to  offer?" 

"None,  sir,"  he  replied,  "except  to  deny  them  in  toto. 
It  is  a  matter  of  pure  spite,  dictated  —  " 

"Now,  now,  now,  Mr.  Carmody,  I  cannot  allow  that. 
I  cannot  listen  to  any  imputation  of  motives  —  " 

"That's  right,  your  honour,"  said  Mrs.  Ryan.  "Take 
that,  now,  you  blagard,  you!  There's  fair  play  for  the 
poor  somewhere,  thank  God!" 

"I  just  want  you  to  answer  my  questions  briefly," 
said  the  Inspector  to  Carmody,  "and  to  make  no  comments 
or  explanations.  Are  you  conscious  of  having  ever,  in 
a  fit  of  temper  or  resentment,  ill-used  that  boy?" 

"  Never,  sir,"  said  Carmody,  somewhat  nettled.  "  I've 
never  punished  that  boy  except  in  the  manner  already 
described." 

"Oh,  glory  be  to  God!  Oh,  sweet  mother  above, 
listen  to  that!"  said  Mrs.  Ryan,  "Yerra,  aren't  you 
afraid  the  ground  would  open  and  swally  you  up,  you 
black-hearted  scoundrel,  to  tell  such  a  lie  an'  before  the 


A  SCHOOL  INQUIRY  287 

ministers  of  God?  Yerra,  your  honour,  ax  him  no  more 
questions,  or  he'll  damn  his  sowl  out  an'  out.  Only  take 
him  now  and  put  him  outside  that  dure  and  sind  us  some 
dacent  bye  that'll  tache  our  childhre  widout  massacray- 
ing  them  —  " 

"  I  think  I'll  adopt  one  of  your  suggestions  at  least,"  said 
the  Inspector,  folding  up  his  papers  and  placing  them  in  a 
small  handbag.  "  I  shall  ask  no  further  questions.  This 
inquiry  is  now  closed;  and  I  shall  place  the  evidence  be- 
fore the  Commissioners  and  let  you  know  their  decision." 

"An'  if  you  just  tell  'em,  your  honour,"  said  Mrs.  Ryan, 
"  that  there's  a  dacent  shlip  of  a  bye,  a  grandson  of  ould 
Mike  Lynch's  at  the  forge,  and  he's  just  the  wan  to  take 
Carmody's  place  here." 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Inspector,  rising,  "but  the 
desirable  vacancy  does  not  exist  as  yet." 

ThaJnspector  lunched  at  the  curate's  house  and  imme- 
diately departed;  and  the  two  priests  were  face  to  face. 
After  a  long  interval  of  silence,  which  Henry  Liston  was 
afraid  to  break,  his  pastor  said: 

"Well?" 

And  Henry  answered: 

"  It  is  an  ugly  symptom.  I  shouldn't  care  much,  but 
what  of  the  children  when  such  things  are  drilled  into 
them?" 

"Yes!"  said  Dr.  William  Gray,  "what  of  the  children? 
What  of  the  next  generation?" 

Then  after  a  pause  he  said,  as  he  rose  up: 

"There!  It  shouldn't  concern  me  much.  I  shall  be 
sleeping  down  there  under  the  elm  in  the  old  church- 
yard. But  I  don't  envy  the  lot  of  the  coming  priesthood. 
They  will  have  sharp  work  cut  out  for  them." 

"They  will  be  equal  to  it,"  said  Henry  gallantly, 
although  his  heart  misgave  him.  "  They  are  getting  new 
weapons  and  adopting  a  new  system  of  warfare;  and  be- 
heve  me,  they'll  be  more  than  a  match  for  the  revolution." 

"I  have  been  hearing  that  ad  nauseavi  and  I  don't 


288  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

believe  a  word  of  it,"  said  his  pastor  angrily.  "There 
would  be  some  meaning  in  that,  if  you  were  dealing  with 
educated  and  intelligent  opposition,  but  of  what  avail 
are  your  new  weapons  by  which,  I  presume,  you  mean 
new  books  and  new  systems,  when  you  have  to  deal  with 
Dick  Duggan  and  Mrs.  Ryan?" 

There  was  no  answer  this  time. 

"So  you're  keeping  to  your  new-fangled  authors,  in 
spite  of  all  I  have  said  to  you.  Believe  me,  Father  Liston, 
you  are  on  the  wrong  track.  There's  nothing  there  but 
what  one  of  the  Fathers  called  'the  wine  of  devils.'" 

"It  is  these  mediaeval  conceits  that  are  playing  the 
mischief  with  the  Church,"  said  Henry.  "Modern 
thought  will  not  stand  those  terrible  maledictions  of  the 
Middle  Ages  on  everything  that  is  beautiful  and  refined. 
'The  body  —  an  open  sewer;  women  —  so  many  devils; 
poetry  —  the  wine  of  demons;  art  —  the  handmaid  of 
iniquity';  —  that  kind  of  thing  won't  do  now,  sir!  Tak? 
my  word  for  it.     It  won't." 

The  old  man  was  fumbling  with  a  book  which  Henry 
had  left  open  on  his  desk;  and,  half  in  contempt  for  what 
his  curate  was  saying,  half  through  curiosity,  he  was 
peering  at  its  pages  with  dim  eyes  held  close  to  the  print. 

"Who  wrote  this?"  he  said  at  last  with  an  accent  of 
stern  anger  in  his  voice  that  sent  the  blood  from  his 
curate's  face. 

"Oh!  that?"  said  Henry,  rising  and  coming  over  to 
where  his  pastor  was  sitting.  "  That's  the  Gestdndnisse  of 
Heine  —  a  profession  of  faith  —  " 

"A  profession  of  ribald  blasphemy!"  said  his  pastor  in 
a  voice  of  thunder.  And  he  sent  the  book  flying  through 
a  pane  of  plate-glass,  which  was  smashed  into  atoms.  He 
then  strode  furiously  from  the  room. 

He  had  stumbled  on  a  pitiful,  but  audacious,  passage 
in  which  the  little  broken  German  Aristophanes  makes  a 
comparison  between  himself  and  the  Almighty. 

Hence.,  when  a  few  days  after,  Henry  Liston  volun- 


A  SCHOOL   INQUIRY  289 

teered  to  come  down  every  day  and  read  the  Office  with 
his  blind  pastor  —  a  task  of  patience  and  much  pain  — 
he  was  doing  a  noble  thing,  a  self-sacrificial  act,  which 
was  sure  to  reap  a  rich  reward. 


20 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

A  Reverie  and  a  Night  Call 

Nurse  O'Farrell  was  sitting  alone  one  of  the  nights  of 
that  winter  in  the  nurses'  room  off  the  main  corridor  of  a 
certain  hospital  in  the  City.  She  had  been  four  years  or 
more  in  the  profession,  had  passed  through  the  stern 
novitiate,  had  seen  life  abroad  at  some  private  houses, 
where  wealthy  patients  were  under  her  hands;  but  her 
heart  had  not  yet  hardened  at  the  sight  of  suffering,  nor 
had  it  been  closed  up  to  the  gentle  influences  that  rained 
upon  it,  even  though  at  widely  separated  intervals,  from 
old  and  cherished  friendships.  From  time  to  time  she 
rose  and  passed  into  the  adjacent  ward,  walking  very 
gently  in  her  soft  felt  slippers,  and  peering  under  the  faint 
light  of  the  lamps  at  the  faces  of  the  sufferers.  Some- 
times she  had  to  raise  up  the  bed-clothes,  fallen  from  the 
arm  of  a  restless  sleeper;  sometimes  she  had  to  raise  and 
smooth  a  sunken  pillow;  sometimes  she  watched  for 
minutes  in  silence  to  detect  any  morbid  symptoms  in 
some  patient  who  had  undergone  an  operation;  and 
sometimes  she  had  to  speak  a  soothing  word  to  some  poor 
invalid,  tortured  by  insomnia  and  staring  half  frantic 
from  ceiling  to  floor  to  get  some  rest  for  that  throbbing 
brain.  She  was  too  young  to  philosophize  much  on  such 
matters;  but  the  constant  sight  of  suffering  made  her 
very  humble;  and,  it  was  always  with  a  little  silent  sigh  of 
gratitude,  she  went  back  to  the  lonely  room.  This  night, 
too,  her  thoughts  had  taken  an  unusually  deep  and  rever- 
ential turn,  for  she  had  been  reading  a  letter  which  had 
come  by  the  evening  mail  from  the  far-off  convent  where 
her  friend,  Mary  Liston,  was  carrying  on  another  heroic 

290 


A  REVERIE  AND  A  NIGHT  CALL  291 

woman's  work  in  prayer  for  smitten  humanity.  Annie 
had  read  the  letter  hastily  when  the  post  came  in.  Then 
she  had  been  summoned  to  tea.  Now,  in  the  intervals 
of  her  solemn  watchings,  she  had  more  leisure  to  take  up 
the  precious  paper  and  study  it,  line  by  line. 

They  were  the  words  of  a  fine  soul,  which  by  one  stu- 
pendous act  of  self-sacrifice  had  emancipated  itself  com- 
pletely from  the  things  of  earth  and  was  walking  in  the 
eye  of  heaven.  And  beneath  the  sweet,  solemn  words 
there  breathed  a  tone  of  gentle  humility  that  brought 
tears  into  Annie's  eyes. 

"You  know,"  she  said,  "we  have  the  same  vocation  —  you,  to 
work;  I,  to  pray,  for  those  who  are  so  dear  to  God.  Sometimes  I 
think  that  yours  is  the  higher  calUng;  and  I  say  to  myself:  'Won't 
you  be  surprised  if  you  see  httle  Annie  very  much  higher  than  you 
shall  be  in  Heaven?'  Then,  to  reassure  myself,  I  put  out  my 
hand,  for  these  thoughts  always  come  in  the  watches  of  the  night, 
and  I  tuuch  the  rough  rug,  or  the  coarse  habit,  or  the  masonry  on 
the  wall,  that  is  not  even  plastered.  I  do  this  to  give  myself  a 
little  courage,  so  that  I  may  be  able  to  say  I'm  doing  a  little  for 
our  Lord.  But  then  the  thought  occurs:  'Ahl  but  now  the  little 
martyr,  Annie,  is  up  and  watching  and  alone;  and  I  see  her  as  the 
hands  go  roimd  slowly  on  the  clock;  and  she  must  not  sleep,  nor 
even  doze ;  for  there  beneath  her  hands  are  precious  Uves  that  must 
be  protected  so  that  the  little  flame  shall  not  flicker,  nor  go  out  in 
the  darkness.  And  I  —  I  can  sleep  and  sleep  soundly ;  and  I  have 
no  great  responsibiHty;  and  therefore,  I  shall  have  no  great  reward. 
And  then,  Annie  can  pray  as  well  as  watch  and  work ;  and  I  see  her 
dear  face  bent  over  her  prayerbook  or  her  book  of  meditations  there 
under  the  gas-lamp  when  not  a  sound  breaks  the  silence  or  inter- 
rupts her  communion  with  God.  Ah  me!  it  is  all  very  grand  and 
beautiful;  and  I  think  how  our  dear  Father,  St.  Francis,  would  love 
you,  because  of  all  your  kindness  to  the  httle  ones  of  Christ.  And 
don't  be  surprised,  dear  Annie,  if  some  night,  when  you  are  lifting 
up  and  soothing  some  poor  sick  child  —  don't  be  surprised  if  St. 
Anthony  comes  and  places  the  Divine  Infant  in  your  arms.  There  1 
you'll  say,  I  suppose,  I'm  rhapsodical;  and  these  are  the  dreams  of 
a  sick  nun,  but  stranger  things  have  happened;  and  then,  nothing 
caai  be  too  great  or  good  for  my  Annie. 

"I  wonder  do  you  often  go  down  to  the  dear  old  spot  where  we 


292  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

spent  a  few  happy  weeks  together.  Rohira  comes  to  me  some- 
times as  in  a  dream  —  the  sea,  and  the  old  gray  castle,  and  the 
gentle  old  Doctor,  and  that  poor  boy,  whom  the  Gypsy  said  his 
mother  was  calling  — " 

But  here  the  letter  fell  from  Annie's  hand;  and  she  began 
to  muse  and  think.  And  she  saw  two  sad  pictures,  which 
she  would  have  liked,  if  she  were  able,  to  blot  from  mem- 
ory. The  one  memory  was  of  a  certain  winter  night, 
when  she  was  hastening  to  her  night-duty  across  the  City; 
and  she  passed  at  a  certain  street  corner  a  group  of  young 
men;  and  they  whistled  and  chirped;  and,  turning  round 
indignantly,  she  thought  she  recognized  the  face  of  Jack 
Wycherly,  and  that  he  slunk  back  into  the  darkness 
before  her  eyes.  The  other  memory  was  of  another 
night,  when  the  streets  were  deserted,  but  for  a  group  of 
giddy  students  and  shop-girls  who  were  chatting  and 
laughing  boisterously  at  a  street  corner;  and  she  thought 
again  that  the  lamp-light  fell  on  the  familiar  face.  Then, 
one  day,  he  came  enrolled  as  a  clinical  student  to  the 
very  hospital  where  she  attended.  But  she  passed  him 
by.  She  heard  his  name  mentioned  as  the  most  brilliant 
and  promising  pupil  of  a  leading  surgeon  in  the  City; 
and  she  watched  the  operations  with  renewed  interest 
when  he  was  there.  Once  she  thought  her  heart  stood 
still  when  she  heard  the  operating  surgeon  call  out: 

"Wycherly,  come  here,  and  take  that  forceps.  I  can 
depend  on  you." 

But  she  never  spoke  to  him  —  partly  because  it  was 
more  or  less  against  the  etiquette  of  the  hospital;  but 
principally  because  he  had  been  gravely  lowered  in  her 
esteem.  But  she  noticed  him;  noticed  that  he  had  grown 
rapidly  into  manhood,  that  the  broad  forehead  seemed 
to  have  expanded  under  the  clusters  of  hair  that  now 
seemed  deepening  into  auburn;  and  she  noticed,  or  thought 
she  saw  the  fires  of  genius  kindling  in  those  deep  blue 
eyes,  which  had  looked  up  at  her  so  reverential  and 
so  timid  ever  so  many  years  ago.  Then,  one  day,  she 
nearly  fell  when  a  strangely  familiar  voice  behind  her, 


A  REVERIE  AND  A  NIGHT  CALL  293 

as  she  walked  along  the  hospital  corridor,  said  deferen- 
tially : 

"Miss  O'Farrell  —  Annie  —  why  do  you  avoid  me? 
Do  you  forget  Jack  Wycherly,  your  old  pupil?" 

But  in  a  moment  her  woman's  wit  and  self-possession 
came  back;  and,  looking  him  steadily  in  the  face,  she 
said  coldly: 

"  You  are  not  the  Jack  Wycherly  that  I  knew." 

"Oh,  but  I  am,  Miss  O'Farrell,"  he  said,  not  under- 
standing the  sinister  meaning  of  her  words.  "Surely, 
I  haven't  changed  so  much  in  appearance  that  you  can- 
not recognize  me?" 

"In  appearance  not  much,"  she  said.  "But  you  are 
not  the  boy,  so  gentle  and  so  proud,  that  used  to  come  to 
uncle's;  and  you  are  not  the  Jack  Wycherly  that  did  the 
honours  of  Rohira  to  me  and  my  friend." 

Something  in  her  tone  of  voice  struck  him.  It  was  an 
echo  of  his  own  conscience;  and  the  hot  blush  ran  to  his  face. 

"How  is  that,  Miss  O'Farrell?"  he  asked  with  an 
offended  air. 

She  hesitated  for  a  moment,  unwilling  to  offend  or 
give  pain,  for  that  sudden  flush  of  face  showed  how  deeply 
he  felt  her  words.     But  her  strong  will  came  to  her  aid. 

"The  young  medical  student,"  she  said  slowly,  but 
now  she  had  grown  pale  with  pain  —  the  pain  she  knew 
she  was  inflicting,  "who  insults  ladies  in  the  streets  at 
midnight,  and  spends  valuable  time  in  flirting  with  giddy 
girls  under  gas-lamps,  is  not  the  Jack  Wycherly  whom  I 
knew  long  ago!" 

He  was  silent,  looking  at  her,  wonderingly,  doubtingly. 
Then,  suddenly,  a  great  wave  of  offended  pride  seemed 
to  sweep  over  his  soul,  for  he  turned  away  muttering: 

"These  are  the  things  that  drive  men  to  the  devil!" 

Since  that  day  they  had  not  spoken.  They  met  but 
seldom;  and  then  only  in  the  operation-room,  or  in  the 
wards,  where  there  were  always  many  students  and  a 
few  nurses  and  doctors;  and  there  seemed  to  be  a  tacit 
understanding  that  they  should  not  recognize  each  other 


294  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Yet  at  times  her  heart  was  troubled  at  his  words :  "  These 
are  the  things  that  drive  men  to  the  devil!"  and  she  used 
to  watch  him  carefully  when  he  was  engrossed  in  his 
patients,  to  see  whether  there  were  any  signs  of  dissipa- 
tion —  any  of  the  slight  hints  that  Nature  gives  when 
she  is  undergoing  ill-treatment.  But  no!  he  was  always 
the  same  handsome,  clever  Jack  Wycherly;  and  every 
day  seemed  to  add  something  to  his  reputation. 

One  day  a  young  nurse  said  to  her: 

"That  young  student,  whom  you  notice  so  much,  has 
the  most  perfect  Grecian  face  I  ever  saw.  It  is  the  face 
of  a  young  god!" 

She  had  been  reading  French  novels.  But  Annie  was 
annoyed;  and  from  that  day  forward,  she  was  more  cir- 
cumspect in  her  looks.  But  the  vision  had  not  faded; 
and  now,  as  the  clock  struck  midnight  and  the  letter  of 
the  young  Collettine  lay  open  in  her  lap,  she  went  over 
all  these  details  again,  as  a  young  girl  will,  who  has  come 
to  the  years  of  idle  musing  and  reverie. 

She  sighed  a  little  and  took  up  the  letter  of  her  young 
friend  again. 

"It  is  idle  to  hope,  I  suppose,  that  they  will  ever  become  Cath- 
olics; but  then,  in  their  own  way,  they  may  serve  God.  I  am  quite 
sure  that  the  good  old  doctor  will  get  many  and  great  graces  before 
he  dies,  for  all  his  kindness  to  the  suffering  poor.  And  I  think 
that  boy  has  a  future  —  that  is,  if  his  mother  does  not  come  for 
him.  But,  there  1  these  are  melancholy  thoughts.  Let  us  dismiss 
them!  Will  you  ever  come  to  see  me?  I  am  dying  to  see  you, 
dear  Annie,  and  in  your  nurse's  uniform.  Is  it  blue,  navy  blue,  or 
brown?  I  hope  the  latter,  because  that  is  the  colour  of  our  Order 
and  our  habit.  Won't  you  laugh  when  you  see  my  rough  brown 
habit  and  leathern  belt  (but  that's  fashionable  now,  I  believe)  and 
sandals?  You  will  be  a  little  shocked  at  our  flagged  floors,  and  the 
arched  ceilings  of  brick  over  our  cells,  and  the  rough  masonry  of 
our  walls.  But  you  will  have  no  occasion  for  hygienic  (is  that  the 
word?)  lectures.  Everything  is  spotless  and  clean  as  your  own 
room  at  the  hospital.  —  Hark!  there  goes  the  vigilante  to  ring  the 
bell  for  Vespers ;  and  you  know  our  rule  —  letter  unfinished  I  meals 
untasted,  etc.  —  good-night  and  pray  for  me'" 


A  REVERIE  AND  A  NIGHT  CALL  295 

But  the  letter,  interesting  as  it  was,  did  not  set  aside 
the  vision  of  the  student  and  its  pain.  The  night  wore 
on;  and  the  darkness  and  loneHness  seemed  to  deepen. 
Annie  rose  more  frequently  than  her  duties  demanded, 
and  walked  her  ward  on  tiptoe.  It  was  the  deepest  hour, 
preceding  the  dawn,  and  sleep  seemed  to  hang  heavy 
on  the  eyelids  of  the  sufferers.  At  least,  she  thought,  1 
shall  have  little  more  to  do  to-night  until  the  day-nurse 
comes  at  eight.  I  shall  read  a  little,  think  a  httle,  dream 
a  httle;  ah!  if  I  could  only  pray  much,  and  not  a  little. 
Ah !  my  little  Collettine,  you  are  up  now  after  your  four 
hours'  sleep.  I  see  you  in  the  dim,  cold  choir,  where 
the  yellow  lamps  are  smoking  and  giving  barely  light  to 
read  the  Office.  I  see  you  in  your  choir-stall,  bending 
down  very  low  in  adoration.  The  great  darkness  over 
your  head  is  alive  with  angels;  and  now  you  raise  your 
head  afTd  look  where  the  red  lamp  is  burning  in  the  mystic 
oil  before  the  Holy  of  Hohes.  Are  you  thinking  of  me, 
as  I  of  you?  You  are,  I  know  it,  else  why  do  I  feel  so 
fairly  happy  — 

The  deep  clangour  of  the  night-bell  rang  shrill  and  harsh 
down  in  the  hall,  just  as  she  was  passing  into  her  room,  in 
a  half-dreaming  mood.  She  paused  on  the  threshold.  She 
knew  what  it  meant.  Then,  swiftly,  as  if  by  instinct,  she 
ran  to  the  surgery;  and  put  together  some  surgical  instru- 
ments and  lint;  and  turned  on  the  hot-water  tap  into  a 
white  basin. 

Then  she  waited. 

She  heard  with  all  the  indifference  of  one  now  hardened 
to  such  things  the  hurried  steps  in  the  hall,  the  banging 
of  doors,  the  whispered  orders  of  the  doctors,  the  sound 
of  hurrying  feet,  until  an  attendant,  rushing  up  the  stairs, 
met  her  and  said: 

"The  doctor  wishes  to  know,  Miss,  can  you  have  No. 
12  ready  at  once?" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "in  a  few  minutes.  I'll  ring.  An 
accident,  I  suppose?" 

"  No,  Miss,  'tis  one  of  our  young  men,  who  was  brought 


296  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

here  by  the  pohce.     I  think  there  was  a  row,  and  he's 
pretty  bad." 

•     Her  heart  seemed  to  stand  still  with  apprehension; 
but  she  said  calmly: 

"  I  shall  ring  when  I'm  ready." 

She  at  once  got  the  bed-clothes  and  other  necessaries 
from  the  hot-press;  swiftly  lighted  the  fire  in  the  bed- 
room; brought  in  all  the  surgical  and  medical  appliances 
she  deemed  necessary;  took  one  look  around  to  see  that 
nothing  was  wanting,  and  then  touched  the  bell. 

Through  a  sense  of  duty  she  remained  standing  in 
the  room,  although  she  would  have  given  v/orlds  to  get 
away  from  the  stifling  apprehension  that  oppressed  her. 
Her  heart  beat  quicker  as  the  muffled  tread  of  the  attend- 
ants came  near;  she  opened  the  door,  and  held  it  open  for 
them,  then  she  gave  one  quick  glance  at  the  insensible 
form  that  lay  on  the  stretcher;  and  she  saw  her  worst 
fears  verified.  It  was  Jack  Wycherly,  quite  insensible, 
and  there  was  a  froth  of  blood  around  his  mouth. 

Silently,  she  helped  to  undress  him,  not  daring  to  ask 
a  question.  Once,  as  she  had  to  stoop  over  his  face,  the 
odour  of  spirits,  mingled  with  the  rank  odour  of  blood, 
seemed  to  exhale  from  his  lips.  And  then,  as  the  form 
of  the  prostrate  student  swayed  helplessly  to  and  fro 
under  her  hands,  and  she  saw  the  degradation,  as  well  as 
the  sorrow  of  the  thing,  her  firm  will  gave  way,  and  she 
found  to  her  intense  humiliation  that  she  was  weeping. 
The  doctor  saw  it,  stared  for  a  moment  at  her,  and  then 
went  over  to  contemplate  the  fire,  twirling  his  stetho- 
scope between  his  fingers. 

When  all  was  right,  and  the  student  lay  back  on  the 
dry,  cool  pillow,  the  doctor  came  over,  bade  the  nurse 
uncover  the  chest  of  his  patient,  applied  the  stetho- 
scope, moving  the  hollow  tube  gently  over  every  region 
of  the  chest.  There  was  no  need  of  examining  the  back 
or  shoulders.  He  raised  himself  up,  and  pointing  to  one 
conspicuous  spot  beneath  the  left  collarbone,  he  said: 

"Just  there  the  trouble  is." 


A  REVERIE  AND  A  NIGHT  CALL  297 

Then  he  added,  looking  at  the  nurse,  who  had  now 
regained  her  perfect  composure: 

"It  is  a  case  of  violent  hemorrhage,  Miss  O'Farrell. 
There  was  a  street-row.  He  was  struck  just  there,  and 
somewhat  violently,  I  should  say.  Look,  there  is  a 
livid  mark.  You  know  the  rest.  He  has  had  occult 
phthisis  for  some  time;  and  the  lung  was  weakened." 

"  But  this  coma  —  this  stupor?  "  said  Annie  anxiously. 

"  Oh,  that's  nothing,"  said  the  man  of  science,  smiling. 
"That  will  pass  off.  But,  you  understand,  he  must  be 
kept  absolutely  quiet.  If  there  is  any  recurrence  of  the 
bleeding,  I  shall  leave  a  little  ergotine  with  you  to  inject. 
And  you  understand  the  rest." 

She  took  his  directions  in  silence.  Then,  as  he  folded 
up  the  instrument  and  was  turning  away,  she  said: 

"I  suppose  it  is  the  beginning  of  the  end?" 

"Ok,  not  necessarily,"  he  said.  "These  hemorrhages 
are  not  always  the  worst  sign.  It  all  depends  on  himself. 
Tis  a  great  pity.  He  was  the  most  brilliant  student 
that  ever  walked  these  wards." 

She  hardly  heard  him.  The  words  were  ringing  in 
her  ears: 

"It  is  things  like  these  that  drive  men  to  the  devil." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  Contested  Election 

We  have  already  said  that  the  rate  levied  on  the 
parishes  of  Athboy  and  Doonvarragh  for  the  burning  of 
Kerins's  hay  was  pressing  hard  on  many  a  poor  farmer  and 
labourer.  And  in  such  cases  the  aggrieved  ones  never 
consider  the  justice  or  the  injustice  of  the  demand.  They 
only  know  that  they  have  to  pay;  and  their  wrath  is 
directed  not  against  the  perpetrator  of  the  evil,  but 
against  the  victim  who  has  sought  to  defend  himself. 
Hence  the  anger  of  the  people  during  these  months  was 
directed  partly  against  Kerins,  partly  against  his  pastor, 
who,  in  his  old  zeal  for  the  maintenance  of  law,  thundered 
denunciations  against  the  criminals.  No  one  seemed  to 
care  to  ask  who  was  the  criminal,  although  there  was  a 
common  opinion  that  the  torch  that  fired  the  rick  of  hay 
came  from  the  boundary  ditch  that  separated  Crossfields 
from  the  Duggans  farm.  Some  people  thought  that  the 
altar  denunciation  was  directly  aimed  at  the  Duggans, 
although  so  veiled  that  no  one  could  prove  it.  But  Dick 
Duggan  swore  that  it  was  he  that  was  aimed  at;  and,  at 
the  same  time,  he  protested  his  innocence,  and  that  the 
real  culprit  would  one  day  be  discovered. 

Mr.  Reeves,  the  member  of  the  Defence  Association, 
who  had  taken  Kerins's  farm  under  his  protection,  was 
promptly  on  the  scene,  and  aided  by  every  means  in  his 
power  the  cause  of  his  cHent.  He  again  called  on  Dr. 
Gray.  The  old  man  was  getting  feeble,  and  he  had  run 
almost  blind.  His  proud  spirit  was  almost  broken  under 
the  trials  of  life.  He  felt  how  powerless  he  was  under  the 
blows  of  fate;  how  useless  were  great  resolves  and  high, 
impartial  desires  in  conflict  with  resistless  circumstances. 
And  the  keenest  pang  of  all  was  that  he  was  now  con- 

298 


A  CONTESTED  ELECTION  299 

vinced  that  his  people  were  passing  through  a  dread 
revolution,  when  every  principle  would  be  discarded  and 
set  aside.  He  had  come  to  that  sad  pass  when  a  man 
looks  to  the  grave  as  his  only  hope. 

Reeves  was  surprised  at  the  sudden  alteration  in  the 
old  man's  appearance.  He  expressed  some  solicitude 
which  was  curtly,  if  courteously,  received.  Then  once 
more  he  repeated  his  thanks  for  the  stern  denunciations 
levelled  against  crime  by  the  aged  pastor.  The  latter 
made  no  reply.  He  did  not  seek  thanks  from  that 
quarter.  Quite  unabashed,  Reeves  explained  that  he 
was  now  a  candidate  for  the  honour  of  being  appointed 
Local  Guardian,  and  he  felt  sure  that  the  good  pastor, 
being  a  man  of  law  and  order,  would  lend  him  his  vote 
and  influence  to  secure  the  coveted  honour. 

Then  the  old  fires  blazed  forth  again. 

"Ko!"  he  said  emphatically.  "I  cannot  give  you  my 
vote;  and  whatever  little  influence  I  now  possess  shall 
be  directed  against  you.  I  have  no  wish  to  be  discourte- 
ous, and  therefore  I  shall  say  nothing  as  to  the  attitude 
your  class  has  always  assumed  toward  the  country's 
best  interests.  But  all  my  life  long  I  have  been  a  Nation- 
alist. All  my  sympathies  are  with  the  people  from  whom 
I  have  sprung.  If  any  Nationalist  candidate  steps  for- 
ward, I  shall  support  him.  If  none,  I  shall  not  record 
my  vote." 

"I  was  hoping,"  said  the  other  with  unruffled  temper, 
"that  the  time  for  those  distinctions  had  gone  by,  and 
that  all  classes  were  now  united  in  view  of  the  common 
welfare." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"You  are  mistaken,  sir,"  he  said.  "At  least,  so  far 
as  I  know,  we  have  not  reached  that  point  as  yet." 

"I  think,"  said  Mr.  Reeves,  "that  bygones  should  be 
bygones.  The  worst  of  our  people  is  that  they  are  so 
retentive  of  things  that  should  long  ago  be  forgotten  and 
forgiven.  So  long  as  the  classes  are  at  war  with  one 
another,  what  hope  can  there  be  for  the  future?" 


300  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Not  much,  perhaps,"  said  the  priest.  "But,  you 
see,  our  ideals  and  principles  are  wholly  irreconcilable. 
At  least,"  he  said,  correcting  himself  hastily  and  speaking 
with  the  methodical  accuracy  that  years  of  close  reason- 
ing and  training  had  taught  him,  "our  larger  ideals  do 
not  meet  with  mutual  acceptance.  In  small  matters, 
such  as  industries  and  such  things,  we  may  agree;  but 
no  amount  of  material  prosperity  can  or  rather  ought  to 
wean  away  the  minds  of  the  people  from  the  great  ideal 
of  their  own  nationhood." 

"An  impossible  ideal!"  said  Reeves.  "Why  should 
the  people  forget  the  solid  advantages  of  life  and  grasp 
at  shadows?" 

"  Why?  Because  God  has  made  them  thus,"  said  the 
priest.  "They  can  no  more  get  rid  of  that  idea  of  inde- 
pendent nationhood  than  they  can  level  their  mountains 
and  drain  their  rivers  dry." 

"  Well,"  said  Reeves,  rising,  "  I  have  nothing  to  say 
to  such  matters.  I'm  not  a  politician.  I  have  no 
politics.  I'm  not  a  Unionist,  nor  a  Conservative,  nor  a 
Nationalist.  I  only  wish  to  do  good  to  the  people  and 
to  wipe  out  the  past." 

The  old  man  smiled. 

"  We  have  heard  that  kind  of  reasoning  a  hundred 
times,  Mr.  Reeves,"  he  said.  "It  won't  do.  It  won't 
do.  You  are  with  the  people,  or  against  them;  that  is, 
you  embrace  the  entire  programme,  or  reject  it." 

"  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  Mr.  Reeves 
sadly  but  courteously.  "  It  makes  one  despair  of  Ireland 
to  hear  a  man  of  your  education  and  high  principle 
speak  thus." 

"  I  have  spoken  but  the  truth,"  said  the  aged  pastor. 
"There  never  is  harm  in  speaking  the  truth." 

"Yes!  But  what  is  Truth?"  said  Reeves,  as  he  bade 
the  old  man  good-day. 

Reeves  was  opposed  by  a  prominent  young  Nation- 
alist, a  farm^er  in  the  locality,  who  had  been  a  prominent 


A  CONTESTED  ELECTION  301 

Leaguer  in  his  time  and  had  spent  one  month  in  gaol. 
As  a  Leaguer  and  a  leading  spirit  amongst  the  politicians 
of  the  parish,  he  had  been  in  open  sympathy  with  the 
Duggans  and  had  done  all  in  his  power  to  compel  Kerins 
to  give  up  Crossfields  and  go  back  to  America.  Although 
he  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  feelings  and  sym- 
pathies, he  had  never  been  offensive  and  had  drawn 
the  line  rigidly  between  what  he  considered  a  legitimate 
diversity  of  view  from  his  parish  priest  and  open  rebellion 
against  the  authority  of  the  Church.  Hence,  although 
he  had  espoused  the  cause  of  the  Duggans,  his  refusal 
to  support  them  in  their  opposition  to  the  pastor  had 
diminished  their  friendship;  and,  considering  the  power 
they  exercised  in  the  parish,  it  made  him  nervous  about 
his  success. 

Recalled  also  on  the  parish  priest,  but  with  fear  and 
trembling.  His  Irish  heart  softened  when  he  saw  the 
debility  of  the  old  man,  as  he  felt  his  way  along  the  hall 
and  opened  the  dining-room  door.  He  twirled  his  hat 
nervously  between  his  hands  as  he  entered  and  was 
bidden  in  a  cold  and  formal  manner  to  sit  down. 

"I'm  going  in  for  the  vacant  place  in  the  Union,  yer 
reverence,"  he  said,  "and  I  came  to  ask  your  support." 

"  You  don't  deserve  much  consideration  from  me, 
Gleeson,"  said  the  old  man. 

Gleeson  hung  his  head. 

"  You  have  taken  a  wrong  stand  against  Kerins,"  con- 
tinued the  priest  relentlessly.  "  You  have  taken  the 
side  of  injustice  against  justice;  and  you  have  aided  and 
abetted  crime  in  the  parish." 

"How  is  that,  yer  reverence?"  said  the  young  man, 
bridling  up.  "  I  certainly  thought  that  the  Yank  might 
have  stayed  where  he  was  and  left  the  Duggans  that 
little  bit  of  land  that  they  wanted.  But  I  have  committed 
no  crime;  and  I  offinded  the  Duggans  by  not  goin'  agin 
you." 

'  I  have  no  feeling  one  way  or  the  other  about  myself," 
said  the  priest.     "What  I  consider  is  the  law  of  God. 


302  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

And  the  man  that  committed  the  crime  of  firing  Kerins's 
haggart  and  putting  a  heavy  tax  on  the  parish  was  guilty 
of  a  terrible  crime  and  is  unquestionably  bound  to  resti- 
tution." 

"  You  don't  mane  to  say,  yer  reverence,  that  I  did  it?" 
said  the  young  man,  deeply  aggrieved. 

"  I  have  no  evidence  one  way  or  the  other,"  said  the 
priest.  "  But  suspicion  points  in  one  direction  and  takes 
in  all  their  friends  and  sympathizers." 

"Thin  I  may  tell  your  reverence,"  said  the  young 
man,  "  that  it  was  nayther  Duggan,  nor  any  friend  of  the 
Duggans,  ever  sot  fire  to  Kerins's  hayrick.  The  people 
well  know  who  did  it,  and  can  put  their  hand  on  them." 

"  Then  why  don't  they  do  it?  "  asked  the  priest,  although 
he  knew  it  was  a  foolish  question. 

"  Because  thim  that  did  it  would  do  worse,"  said  Glee- 
son.     "  But  it  will  all  come  out  a-yet." 

Then,  after  a  pause,  he  rose  up,  saying: 

"  I  may  take  it  thin,  yer  reverence,  that  I'm  not  goin' 
to  get  your  support?" 

"  You  may  take  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the  priest. 
"Mr.  Reeves  was  here  this  morning,  and  I  refused  him." 

"What?"  said  the  young  man  in  surprise.  "Every- 
wan  says  that  Reeves  is  your  man." 

"Then  what  brought  you  here?"  said  the  priest. 

"I  wanted  to  get  the  refusal  from  your  own  mouth," 
said  Gleeson. 

"My  God!"  said  the  old  priest  in  despair,  "these  people 
will  never  understand  me.  What  right  have  you,  or  any 
of  your  likes,  to  say  that  I  have  given  a  wrong  vote  in 
my  lifetime,  or  done  aught  else  against  my  country? 
I,  who  have  always  been  on  the  side  of  the  people,  who 
have  fought  their  battle,  who  knew  the  bravest  of  the 
men  that  fought  for  Ireland,  before  any  of  you,  you  inso- 
lent and  ignorant  young  puppies,  was  born  —  I,  to  be 
taken  as  a  traitor  and  a  backslider  by  fellows  that  do  not 
regard  the  laws  of  God  or  man,  and  who  would  thank 
God  that  they  had  a  country  to  sell  —  ohl  what  an  age 


A  CONTESTED  ELECTION  303 

to  live  in  I  'Tis  long,  Gleeson,  since  your  father,  or  your 
brave  old  grandfather,  who  carried  his  pike  in  '48,  would 
think  and  speak  as  you  have  spoken." 

The  violent  emotion  of  the  old  blind  priest  seemed  to 
touch  the  sensibilities  of  the  young  man  deeply  and  he 
made  an  abject  but  fruitless  apology.  The  shame  of 
being  thought  a  traitor  to  his  principles,  even  when  he 
was  most  deeply  attached  to  them,  had  gone  too  far  into 
the  breast  of  the  old  man  to  be  relieved  by  mere  excuses. 
He  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  bid  the  young  man  go;  and 
the  latter,  shamed  and  sorrow-stricken,  departed. 

Late  in  the  evening  he  went  up  the  hill  toward  the  farm 
where  the  Duggans  lived.  He  was  heavy  at  heart  after 
his  rencontre  with  his  pastor;  but  he  was  anxious  about 
his  election  and  came  to  consult  his  supporters.  His 
visit 'Was  taken  coldly.  He  affected  a  confidence  which 
he  did  not  feel. 

"Things  are  going  well,  Dick,"  he  said,  as  the  young 
man  met  him  in  the  haggart.  "  I'm  pretty  sure  now  that 
we'll  give  Reeves  the  divil  of  a  lickin'." 

"Indeed?"  said  Dick,  plunging  his  hands  in  his  trou- 
sers' pockets,  and  looking  over  the  landscape. 

"Yes!"  said  Gleeson,  noticing  the  coldness,  "I  think 
that  we'll  give  the  landlords  such  a  lesson  this  time  that 
they'll  never  show  their  faces  here  agin." 

"That  'ud  be  a  pity,"  said  Dick.  "Some  landlords 
are  good,  and  some  are  bad,  and  some  are  middlin'." 

"An'  what  is  Reeves?"  said  Gleeson  with  some  anxiety. 

"Well,  some  say  he  is  a  good  man  enough,"  said  Dick 
coolly,  "They  sez  he's  good  to  the  poor  and  gives  'em 
tons  of  coal  at  Christmas." 

"But  he's  a  Unionist,  he's  the  president,  or  secretary, 
or  something  in  the  Defence  Union,  an'  he's  a  landlord," 
said  Gleeson, 

"The  people  doesn't  mind  thim  things  now,"  said  Dick. 
"These  are  ould-fashioned  things.  And  sure  now  'Tis 
everywan  for  himself,  and  God  for  us  all." 


304  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Gleeson  looked  away  and  began  to  whistle  softly.  Then 
his  temper  rose. 

"  Perhaps  you  mane  that  you  and  your  father  are  going 
to  go  back  of  all  ye  ever  said  or  done;  an'  goin'  to  vote 
for  the  inimy?" 

"Better  an  honest  inimy  than  a  desateful  frind,"  said 
Dick. 

"Do  you  mane  me?"  said  Gleeson,  with  blazing  eyes. 

"  I  mane  thim  that  are  supportin'  you,  or  sez  they  are," 
said  Dick. 

"To  cut  it  short,"  said  Gleeson,  "you  mane  that  you 
and  your  father  are  goin'  back  of  your  counthry  and  your 
creed;  an'  goin'  over  to  the  landlord  an'  the  souper?" 

"  You  may  put  it  anny  way  ye  like,"  said  Duggan. 
"But  me  and  me  father  will  vote  for  Reeves,  av  it  was 
only  to  shpite  thim  that's  backmg  you.' 

"May  it  do  you  good!"  said  Gleeson,  moving  away. 
"But  you  may  be  sure  'twill  nayther  be  forgiven  or 
forgotten  for  ye." 

And  Reeves,  landlord,  Unionist,  Member  of  the  De- 
fence Union,  Head  Emergency  man,  etc.,  was  elected 
by  the  votes  of  the  people  over  the  head  of  the  young 
Nationalist,  who  had  slept  on  the  plank-bed  and  walked 
the  treadmill  for  his  country. 

But  the  latter  had  his  revenge.  It  soon  became  quite 
clear  that  the  Duggans  were  exceedingly  hopeful  that 
their  ambition  was  at  last  to  be  realized.  Crossfields, 
the  snug  farm  on  the  hill-side,  with  its  trim  hedges,  its 
deep,  dewy  soil,  its  comfortable  dwelling-house  and 
spacious  out-offices,  was  practically  theirs.  For  now 
Kerins  had  become,  under  the  burden  of  much  trouble, 
a  stooped  and  worn  man.  All  the  fires  of  independence 
which  he  had  brought  from  the  Western  States  seemed 
tc  have  smouldered  down  into  white  ashes  of  despair; 
and,  although  still,  with  the  instinct  of  industry  and 
thrift,  he  kept  his  place  neat,  it  was  quite  clear  that  he 
was  taking  to  that  solace  of  the  wretched  —  drink;  and 


A  CONTESTED  ELECTION  305 

that  it  was  only  a  matter  of  time  that  he  should  become 
a  hopeless  bankrupt.  Many  a  morning,  before  the  larks 
rose  up  from  their  dewy  nests  in  the  thick  clover,  Dick 
Duggan  watched  across  the  boundary-ditch  that  sepa- 
rated his  farm  from  Kerins's  —  watched  with  eager  and 
covetous  eyes  the  rich  meadows,  where  the  purple  and 
white  clover  was  smothered  beneath  the  rich,  sweet 
grass,  which  was  rapidly  shooting  into  the  yellow  tassels 
of  the  hay;  watched  the  cattle  knee-deep  in  the  succulent 
pasture,  and  the  long  parallel  ridges,  where  the  tender 
grass-corn  was  springing  from  the  red  earth.  Many  a 
time  his  gaze  wandered  across  the  fields  to  the  long  white- 
washed walls  of  the  farm-house,  nestling  beneath  its 
roof  of  thatch;  and  a  very  sweet  and  gentle  vision  (for 
such  visions  do  come  even  to  such  hardened  natures  as 
Duggan's)  of  domestic  feHcity,  shared  by  one  of  the  bon- 
niest ^naidens  of  the  parish  seemed  to  arise  and  shed  its 
radiance  across  the  dull,  gray  monotone  of  the  now 
wifeless  and  childless  home.  Yes!  Even  Dick  Duggan 
was  so  cocksure  of  Crossfields  that  he  had  almost  made 
his  formal  engagement  with  Martha  Sullivan;  and  had 
even  indulged  the  imagination  of  his  future  bride  with  a 
repetition  of  all  those  blissful  fancies  that  were  haunting 
himself.  Hence  when  Reeves,  with  all  the  coolness  and 
effrontery  of  his  class,  called  to  solicit  his  vote,  Duggan 
hesitated,  asked  questions,  delayed  answers,  and  prac- 
tised all  the  arts  of  a  skilled  diplomatist,  until  he  had 
extorted  a  half-promise  from  the  wary  landlord  that, 
should  Crossfields  again  become  tenantless,  his  own 
priority  of  claim  should  be  admitted.  Then  he  gave 
his  vote. 

There  was  some  shrugging  of  shoulders,  and  many 
questions,  and  some  comments  when  it  was  known  that 
Dick  Duggan  had  actually  supported  the  most  obnoxious 
man  in  all  the  land.  But  then  men  shrugged  their  shoul- 
ders and  dismissed  the  subject  with  the  reflection: 
"Tis  now  every  man  for  himself  and  God  for  us  alll" 
And  —  Dick  Duggan  had  the  majority  on  his  side. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

The  Great  Renunciation 

Meanwhile,  Henry  Liston  had  been  passing  through  a 
singular  mental  revolution.  That  painful  scene  with  his 
pastor,  when  the  latter  in  a  fit  of  furious  zeal  flung  the 
offending  volume  through  the  window,  awakened  new 
thoughts,  and  threw  the  young  priest  further  back  upon 
himself.  Up  to  that  time  he  had  formed  the  judgment 
that  his  pastor,  otherwise  and  in  every  way  an  excellent 
type  of  a  great  shepherd  of  souls,  was,  however,  somewhat 
of  an  extremist,  because  old-fashioned  and  conservative 
and  without  that  flexibility  of  character  that  fits  in  with 
changes  in  the  times  and  circumstances  of  life.  Hence 
he  had  disregarded  the  very  plain  criticism  and  sarcasm 
which  the  old  man  flung  broadcast  upon  his  more  liberal 
and  modern  studies.  They  were,  he  thought,  the  privi- 
lege of  a  class  that  was  rapidly  passing  away;  and  it  was 
hardly  worth  while  to  controvert  them,  or  reason  the  old 
man  into  broader  and  freer  methods  of  thought.  But, 
just  as  the  sharp  report  of  a  pistol  in  some  Alpine  valley 
will  precipitate  the  fall  of  an  avalanche,  so  that  act  of 
violence  of  which  his  pastor  was  guilty  seemed  to  fling 
across  the  soul  of  the  young  priest  vast  doubts  and  diffi- 
culties, which  hitherto  were  only  poised  in  solution  and 
mildly  threatening. 

He  took  up  the  offending  volume  of  the  unhappy  poet 
from  the  grass  where  it  lay  beneath  the  broken  window. 
It  was  uninjured,  except  for  one  sharp  cut  across  the 
smooth  binding;  and  he  opened  and  read  with  deliberation 
the  passage  that  had  so  moved  his  pastor's  passion.  It 
was  infinitely  pathetic  —  a  cry,  a    complaint,   as  of  a 

306 


THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION  307 

wounded  thing,  to  the  Being  who  had  wrought  such 
havoc  into  its  life.  He  thought  he  could  see  the  unhappy- 
man  on  his  bed  of  mattresses  far  away  there  in  the  room 
above  the  seething  life  of  a  Parisian  boulevard  —  par- 
alyzed, his  spine  broken,  his  limbs  emaciated,  his  eyelids 
closed  down  helplessly  over  the  burning  eyes.  It  was  a 
pitiful  vision  of  the  fancy;  and  the  pleading  and  com- 
plaining words  almost  brought  tears  into  the  young 
priest's  eyes,  for  they  appeared  to  be  the  voice  of  bruised 
and  wounded  humanity;  but  suddenly  he  saw  the  worn 
hand  lift  up  one  eyelid;  and  looking  toward  him,  he  saw 
that  eye  leering  at  him  in  very  scorn  for  his  maudlin  pity. 
And  then  came  the  words  of  blasphemous  anger,  that  had 
set  ablaze  the  pious  soul  of  his  pastor;  and  the  strong, 
scornful  nickname  that,  half  a  jest,  was  wholly  an  insult 
to  the  Almighty. 

He^ut  down  the  book  and  began  to  think : 
"  Is  it  right  for  me  to  find  pleasure  in  such  things?  Am 
I  not  a  priest,  chosen  from  thousands  to  be  the  loyal 
servant  and  faithful  subject  of  my  King?  Did  I  not 
swear,  whilst  my  hands  were  clasped  within  my  bishop's, 
fidelity  and  loyalty  to  Him,  who  had  predestined  me  from 
eternity  to  be  one  of  His  holy  and  anointed  band  of 
priests,  who  were  to  carry  His  banner,  and  extend  His 
empire?  And  am  I  serving  Him  loyally  whilst  my  book- 
shelves are  lined  with  literature,  every  line  of  which 
seems  to  be  a  fierce  indictment  of  His  sovereign  good- 
ness? Is  it  not  treasonable  to  keep  treasonable  produc- 
tions in  one's  possession  and  to  relish  their  disloyalty 
for  the  sake  of  their  art?  True,  I  wouldn't  for  the  world 
place  one  of  these  dangerous  and  unholy  things  in  the 
hands  of  the  most  enlightened  of  my  parishioners,  lest 
I  should  outrage  his  faith,  or  scandalize  him  by  the  very 
toleration  of  such  iniquity.  But  have  I  the  right  to 
indulge  in  secret  a  certain  morbid  if  enlightened  taste 
for  such  forbidden  things,  that  if  I  were  to  utter  them 
from  the  pulpit,  I  should  be  stripped  of  my  priesthood 
and  silenced  forever?    And  is  there  not  some  inconsistency 


308  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

in  uttering  several  times  a  day  the  magnificent  praises 
of  the  Shepherd-King  and  Poet  of  Israel  and  then  laying 
down  the  harp  of  Sion  to  take  up  the  viol  of  Satan?  Is 
there  not  a  gulf,  wider  than  heaven,  deeper  than  hell, 
between  the  souls  of  the  kingly  Psalmist  and  the  smitten 
German  Jew?  Between  that  terrible,  mocking  Spitz- 
name,  "The  Aristophanes  of  Heaven,"  and  the  seraphic 
rapture  which  made  the  sublime  convert,  Augustine, 
exclaim : 

Whence  therefore  have  I  known  Thee,  O  Lord,  most  high  God 
above  the  heavens  and  the  earth,  whom  neither  Cherubim  nor 
Seraphim  can  perfectly  know,  but  veil  their  faces  with  the  wings 
of  contemplation  before  the  face  of  Him  who  sits  upon  the  throne, 
and  proclaim:  Holy,  Holy,  Holy  is  the  Lord  God  of  Hosts,  all  the 
earth  is  full  of  Thy  glory?  The  Prophet  trembled  and  said:  Woe 
imto  me,  because  I  have  been  silent,  because  my  lips  are  polluted. 
And  my  heart  has  trembled  and  said :  Woe  unto  me,  because  I  have 
known  Thee.  Nevertheless,  Lord,  woe  unto  those  who  are  silent 
concerning  Thee,  for  without  Thee  the  most  eloquent  are  dumb.* 

The  lesson  struck  home  to  the  heart  of  the  young  priest 
whose  mobile  disposition  was  capable  of  great  things,  or 
could  be  subdued  to  lower  levels.  Again  he  gave  one 
whole  day  to  an  examination  of  the  question  in  all  its 
details.  It  was  a  day  of  much  anguish  of  thought,  of 
such  searchings  and  inquiries  into  the  most  secret  recesses 
of  the  soul  that  the  probing  becomes  infinitely  painful, 
and  the  wavering  of  the  judgment  causes  almost  physical 
anguish.  He  had  gone  through  these  spiritual  autopsies 
again  and  again ;  but  his  decisions  were  prompt  and  pain- 
less. Under  the  influence  of  his  sister's  letters  urging 
him  to  the  higher  life,  he  had  gradually,  but  without 
much  mortification,  weaned  himself  from  those  sensible 
pleasures  which,  perfectly  innocent,  began  to  appear 
somewhat  incongruous  with  his  profession.  Graceful 
little  etchings  and  engravings  of  such  pictures  as  "  MerHn 
and  Vivien,"  or  "The  Lily  Maid  of  Astolat,"  were  quietly 

*  Soliloquia  S.  Aug.    Cap.  XXXI. 


THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION  309 

disposed  of;  bit  by  bit,  his  little  silver  treasures  were 
melted  down  and  passed  in  coin  into  the  pockets  of  the 
poor.  He  hesitated  a  long  time  about  his  piano;  but 
finally  decided  it  might  be  useful.  But  he  parted  with 
his  Operas  and  bought  Oratorios.  Even  his  love  for 
flowers,  with  all  other  beautiful  things,  he  subdued  so 
far  that  he  kept  them  only  for  his  altar.  But  now  he 
was  called  upon  by  some  mysterious  voice  to  part  with 
his  beloved  books  —  those  silent,  but  delightful  compan- 
ions, which  had  shed  such  a  glow  of  happiness  over  his 
life.  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes  as  he  cast  them  over 
the  well-filled  bookcase.  But  the  voice  seemed  to  be 
peremptory.  Finally  he  compromised  with  the  voice  and 
his  conscience.  He  drew  down  a  red  silk  lining  inside 
the  glass  doors  of  his  bookcases  and  turned  the  keys 
in  the  locks.  Then  he  went  out.  He  passed  down 
along/the  ridges  that  sentinelled  the  sea  until  he  came  to 
the  rude  ditch  that  was  built  above  the  steep,  red  rocks, 
whose  feet  were  washed  by  the  tide.  For  a  few  moments 
he  hesitated.  He  felt  the  agonies  of  one  who  did  not 
know  whether  he  was  going  to  perform  a  heroic  deed  or 
perpetrate  an  atrocious  crime.  But  just  then  the  mock- 
ing voice  of  his  pastor  seemed  to  echo  in  his  ears: 

ROslein,  Roslein,  Roslein  roth, 
Roslein  auf  der  Heiden, 

and  swinging  the  keys  above  his  head,  he  flung  them  far 
out  into  the  deep.  He  just  watched  until  the  waters 
leaped  at  the  impact  and  then  subsided;  and  he  went 
back  to  his  home  not  at  all  unhappy  for  the  sacrifice. 

From  that  moment  his  spiritual  duties,  which  some- 
times had  become  irksome,  began  to  afford  him  unusual 
pleasure.  He  threw  himself  into  them,  heart  and  soul, 
and  a  new  life  seemed  to  dawn  upon  him.  He  was  con- 
scious, too,  as  he  advanced  along  the  road  of  penance 
and  spirituality,  of  a  strange  vigour  which  seemed  to  be 
infused  into  his  character  by  the  steady  self-control 
axid  spiritual  illumination  that  followed.     Gradually  he 


310  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

made  up  his  mind  that  he  had  to  find  all  his  recreation, 
as  well  as  his  work,  in  the  religious  regeneration  of  the 
people.  He  shut  his  eyes  to  all  their  defects;  he  closed 
his  ears  to  all  siren  calls  of  patriotism  and  politics;  he 
plunged  blindly  forward,  his  strength  of  soul  increasing 
at  every  step,  into  a  work  where  there  seemed  to  be 
neither  recognition  nor  reward,  not  even  the  reward  of 
apparent  or  even  transitory  success. 

He  was  helped  along  a  good  deal  by  his  daily  confer- 
ences with  his  pastor.  Every  afternoon  he  rode  down 
to  the  presbytery;  and  after  a  few  words  the  two  priests 

—  the  old  man,  with  the  gray  hairs  and  the  extinguished 
sense  of  sight;  and  the  handsome,  strong,  young  curate 

—  knelt  side  by  side,  or  sat,  whilst  the  younger  of  the 
two  read  out,  line  by  line,  the  Office  of  the  day.  He  had 
to  go  right  through  it  without  pause  or  stop,  his  pastor 
repeating  the  alternate  verses  or  antiphons,  which  were 
familiar  to  him  after  fifty  years,  and  then  listening  atten- 
tively and  reverently  to  his  curate  reading  out  slowly 
and  solemnly  the  stately  passages  from  the  Scriptures 
and  the  Lessons  in  the  Second  and  Third  Noctums. 
The  slow,  distinct  utterance  and  dwelling  on  syllables 
were  a  wonderful  help  toward  correcting  his  too  rapid 
pronunciation.  He  had  now  time  to  notice  and  relish 
the  sublime  sweetness  that  underlies  the  noble  Psalms 
in  the  Office;  and,  unlike  his  private  recitations,  when 
he  felt  sometimes  that  the  Office  was  a  burden,  these 
choral  readings  became  so  sweet  and  significant  to  sense 
and  intellect  that  he  almost  regretted  their  termination. 
But  then  he  had  to  take  up  Suarez  or  St.  Thomas  and 
read  out  at  least  one  proposition  with  all  its  scholia  and 
objections  for  his  blind  pastor;  and  this  became,  too, 
after  a  time,  a  source  of  intense  pleasure.  He  felt  at 
last  that  he  was  on  the  summits  of  the  everlasting  hills. 

Occasionally  he  pulled  from  his  pocket  a  little  vellum- 
bound  volume,  containing  the  Meditations,  Soliloquies, 
and  Manual  of  St.  Augustine,  and  anticipated  his  pastor's 
request  for  such  spiritual  reading.     But  these  sublime 


THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION  311 

canticles  were  not  quite  methodical  or  controvertible 
enough  for  the  pastor's  taste;  and  Henry  had  to  go  b  ick 
to  the  hard,  dry,  terrible  reasoning  that  pervades  the 
modem  theologians. 

Then  they  would  talk  about  parish  affairs. 

"How  can  we  bring  them  back,"  the  old  man  would 
say,  reverting  forever  to  the  old  theme,  "how  can  we 
bring  the  people  back  to  their  old  selves?  They  appear 
to  have  fallen  under  some  malignant  spell  of  selfishness. 
How  I  do  hate  to  hear  them  say : '  Every  man  now  for  him- 
self!' It  is  so  unlike  the  old  generous  spirit  that  made 
their  ancestors  throw  up  everything  for  God  and  their 
country." 

"I  think,"  said  his  curate  meekly,  "that  we  have  to 
blame  ourselves.  I  fear,  sir,  that  in  helping  to  work 
out  the  material  prosperities  of  the  race,  we  have  lost 
hold  of  what  is  more  important." 

"  Frecisely.  Just  what  I  was  saying  to  you  about  the 
new  patriotism.  It  is  all  self,  self  —  the  land,  and  then 
something  else,  and  then  something  else,  until  the  whole 
thing  will  end  in  a  species  of  Socialism,  and  the  people's 
desires  become  insatiable." 

"God  forbid!  And  yet  'tis  possible,"  said  his  curate. 
"  It  is  so  hard  to  pursue  the  material  thing  and  conserve 
the  ideal  at  the  same  time." 

"Well,  keep  the  ideal  before  them,"  said  his  pastor. 
"Hold  them  up  and  make  them  fix  their  eyes  steadily 
on  the  highest  national  and  spiritual  ideals.  That  is 
our  only  hope." 

"How  is  Miss  O'Farrell,  sir?"  said  his  curate  after  a 
pause. 

"Well,  very  well,  indeed.  She  always  desires  to  be 
remembered  to  you.  She  appears  to  be  very  happy 
in  her  profession.  You  know  it  was  a  big  gap  in  my 
life  in  the  beginning;  but  now  I  see  'tis  all  for  the  better. 
It  was  selfish  of  me  to  try  and  keep  her  here  always. 
She  had  a  right  to  choose  for  herself." 

"Do  you  know,  sir,"  said  Henry  Listen  abruptly,  "I 


312  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

had  always  an  idea  that  she  wanted  to  escape  from  the 
attentions  of  that  fellow  Wycherly?" 

It  was  a  secret  of  some  years'  standing;  and  Henry  was 
appalled  at  his  rashness  in  revealing  it  so  suddenly.  It 
was  utterly  unpremeditated. 

"Ha!"  said  the  old  man  sharply,  a  sudden  pallor 
deepening  on  his  white  face.  He  then  became  silent. 
And  his  curate  waited  in  trepidation,  not  knowing  what 
was  coming  next.  It  might  be  a  volcanic  explosion,  or 
the  puff  of  a  deadened  heart. 

After  a  pause  which  Henry  Liston  thought  would 
never  end,  he  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  said: 

"You  never  mentioned  this  before!" 

"It  was  only  a  conjecture,"  said  his  curate.  "The 
putting  together  of  one  or  two  things  that  seemed  to  fit 
each  other." 

There  was  another  pause. 

"I  had  always  some  suspicion,  some  idea,  that  this 
introduction  to  the  Wycherlys  through  these  boys  was 
not  altogether  wise.     Now  I  see  it,"  said  the  old  man. 

"You  meant  well,  sir!"  said  the  curate  soothingly. 
"And  after  all,  it  was  a  noble  lesson  in  toleration." 

"And  like  all  noble  lessons,  a  dangerous  personal 
experiment,"  said  his  pastor. 

"  I  understand  there  is  much  trouble  brewing  amongst 
them  at  Rohira!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "This  returned 
mate,  or  captain,  or  whatever  he  is,  does  not  agree  with 
his  father." 

"  I  suppose  the  fellow  is  a  ne'er-do-well,"  said  his  pastor. 

"There  is  some  dark  suspicion  hanging  over  his  rela- 
tions with  those  gypsies,"  said  his  curate.  "The  father 
has  come  to  hear  it  and,  with  his  old  sense  of  honour,  he 
is  indignant  about  it.  I  think  if  Jack  survives,  and  would 
give  up  his  profession,  the  father  would  probably  leave 
him  Rohira." 

"  Or  perhaps  Kerins  would  come  back  into  his  ancestral 
home?"  said  the  pastor. 

"Not  likely,  I  fear,"  said  his  curate.     "He  has  been 


THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION  313 

rushing  to  ruin,  as  you  know,  but  I  think  I've  pulled  him 
up  and  that  he  is  on  the  mending-tack.  If  I  could  get 
him  married  to  Martha  Sullivan,  she  would  be  his  salva- 
tion." 

"  Martha  Sullivan?    Martha ?  " 

"  You  remember  her,  sir  —  that  handsome  girl  over 
at  Carrig  —  old  Mick  Sullivan's  daughter?" 

"Dolly?  Of  course.  Is  it  Dolly?  Why,  'tisn't  two 
years  since  we  had  her  confirmed." 

"Yes,  she  has  sprung  up  to  womanhood  quickly;  and 
she  is  a  most  excellent  girl.  But  Duggan  and  she  have 
been  rather  thick.  The  chances  are  that  it  is  one  of  the 
reasons  why  Kerins  seems  to  leap  at  the  notion." 

"Bu^  won't  it  make  matters  much  worse  there?" 

"Worse  and  better!"  said  Henry  Liston.  "It  will 
save  this  poor  fellow  from  ruin;  and  then  it  will  bring 
round  the  Sullivan  faction  to  his  side,  and  they  have  a 
big  following." 

"Kerins  is  not  a  bad  fellow,  I  believe?"  said  the  old 
man. 

"Not  at  all.  He's  a  little  careless,  like  so  many  who 
go  abroad.  But  'tis  easy  to  get  at  the  soft  side  of  him. 
I  think  I'll  get  him  to  his  Easter  duty  this  year.  And  in 
the  end,  I  think,  he'll  balk  them  all.  The  Duggans  will 
rage  a  little  and  then  subside.  I  wish  that  ruffian,  Dick 
Duggan,  would  go  to  America.  The  rest  of  the  family 
are  fairly  quiet." 

"Wasn't  it  an  extraordinary  thing  that  they  voted 
for  Reeves?  I  didn't  think  that  there  was  an  Irishman 
in  the  parish  that  would  side  with  him." 

"It  is  the  'New  Ireland,'  sir!"  said  his  curate,  "of 
which  we  were  speaking.  There  were  injured  feelings, 
filthy  lucre,  and  then  the  '  gintleman '  came  on  the  scene, 
and  more  than  the  '  gintleman '  —  the  lady  came  with 
her  lavender  gloves,  and  her  perfumes,  and  her  seal- 
skins, and  what  Irishman  could  resist  that?  They'd 
put  the  rope  round  Robert  Emmet's  neck  for  such  an 
honour." 


314  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Yes,  'the  gintleman,'  'the  gintleman!'"  echoed  his 
pastor.  "  How  well  I  remember  the  word !  But  I  had 
always  been  hoping  that  the  Land  League  had  killed  all 
that." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it!"  said  his  curate.  "They  are  more 
abject  slaves  to  the  gentry  than  ever!  If  I  hadn't  stopped 
him,  Kerins  would  have  sold  his  farm  to  young  Wycherly. 
The  fellow  has  money,  and  he'd  have  given  him  double 
what  he  had  paid  for  it.  And  then,  as  I  was  saying,  he 
was  impatient  of  his  father's  tenure  of  Rohira  and  he 
had  set  his  heart  on  marrying  Miss  O'Farrell.  He  told 
Kerins  so." 

"My  God!  what  an  escape!"  said  the  old  man.  "I'd 
rather  see  her  dead." 

"There  was  no  danger!"  said  his  curate.  "I  think 
she  must  have  expressed  herself  pretty  freely,  when  the 
matter  was  even  hinted  at.  And  now,  I  think,  Wycherly 
will  cut.  He'll  go  back  to  sea;  but,  they  say,  he's  blocked 
there  and  that  he  was  expelled  from  his  ship." 

"Strange  that  Annie  never  told  m.e!"  murmured  the 
old  man.     "She  might  have  told  me,  I  think!" 

"  I  don't  think  so,"  said  his  curate.  "  It  was  rather  a 
delicate  matter;  and  then  she  has  such  superb  self-reliance 
that  probably  she  thought  she  would  spare  you  pain, 
whilst  protecting  herself." 

"My  brave  little  girl!"  murmured  the  old  man. 

"Yes!  she  is  a  brave  girl!"  echoed  his  curate. 

"I  shall  never  attempt  to  cross  her  will  again,"  said 
the  old  man.  "  I  see  now  I  can  rely  on  her  sagacity  and 
firmness  in  every  emergency." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 


A  Full  Confession 


Annie  O'Farrell  had  lifted  the  blinds,  lowered  the 
gas-jet,  and  allowed  the  gray  light  of  the  dawn  to  stream 
into  the/room;  and  still  her  patient  had  not  recovered 
from  the  heavy  coma,  or  unconsciousness,  in  which  he 
had  been  brought  from  the  city  streets  to  the  hospital. 
His  face,  which  had  been  flushed  when  he  was  brought 
in,  assumed  under  the  more  searching  light  of  the  morning 
a  gray,  ashen  hue,  which  was  made  all  the  more  ghastly 
by  the  hectic  purple  beneath  the  cheek-bones,  and  the 
thick  masses  of  auburn  hair  that  lay  matted  and  clotted 
on  his  forehead.  A  great  pain  was  in  her  heart  as  she 
watched  him,  dreading  the  first  signs  of  returning  con- 
sciousness and  her  own  recognition.  For  the  words,  as 
of  a  despairing  soul,  came  back  and  smote  her  with  their 
dread  significance: 

"It  is  things  like  these  that  drive  men  to  the  devil." 

She  thought  of  her  proud  aloofness  and  coldness  toward 
him  with  a  remorse  that  no  reasoning  could  stifle;  for  a 
generous  heart  will  admit  of  no  excuse  for  itself  where  it 
has  erred.  She  argued:  I  was  not  bound  to  recognize 
or  notice  him.  The  accident  of  our  acquaintance  some 
years  ago  did  not  oblige  me  to  resume  that  acquaintance 
under  altered  circumstances.  I  was  quite  justified  in 
what  I  did,  and  also  in  what  I  said,  bitter  though  it  might 
have  been.  I  meant  it  as  a  corrective  and  I  hoped  it 
would  have  such  an  effect. 

But  what  woman's  heart  would  accept  such  reasoning 
in  face  of  a  stricken  thing?  All  in  vain.  She  bathed  the 
temples  of  the  boy  in  camphor  and  vinegar,  and  it  is 
possible  they  were  diluted  with  a  tear. 

315 


316  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

The  day  nurse  came  on  duty  at  eight  o'clock;  and 
Annie  prepared  to  depart. 

"One  of  our  young  hospital  students,"  she  said,  ex- 
plaining, "  brought  in  during  the  night." 

"Apoplectic?" 

"No!  He  has  had  one  violent  hemorrhage,  and  it 
may  recur.  This  is  the  prescription,  should  it  have  to 
be  renewed;  but  I  think  there  is  sufficient  in  this  bottle 
for  the  day.      And  here  is  the  ergotine  for  injection." 

"Wycherly?"  said  the  young  nurse,  reading.  "Is 
that  it?  Oh!  that  brilliant  young  lad!  What  a  pity. 
It  seems  phthisis,  I  suppose?" 

"I  hope  not.     We  must  do  our  best  to  ward  it  off." 

"Of  course,"  said  the  nurse  with  a  little  smile.  "We 
must  use  particular  care  in  Mr.  Wycherly's  case." 

"He  is  one  of  our  own  students,"  said  Annie,  biting 
her  lips.  "  And  I  know  Surgeon  Cleeve  is  deeply  interested 
in  him." 

"Of  course,  I'm  sure  a  good  many  people  are  inter- 
ested in  Mr.  Wycherly.  He's  from  the  country,  is  he 
not?" 

"Yes!  His  father  is  a  retired  navy-surgeon.  His 
mother  is  dead,"  said  Annie,  who  was  trying  heroically 
to  keep  her  temper  and  suppress  her  mortification. 

"Ah  well!  then,  we  must  do  all  we  can  for  him.  Any 
other  bad  cases?" 

"No!  That  Httle  girl,  who  was  operated  upon,  was 
restless  during  the  night.  And  I  fear  Mrs.  Williams's 
temperature  will  be  found  abnormally  high.  Call  Dr. 
Alison's  attention  to  it.  Don't  forget.  And  that  girl, 
Alice  Lane,  has  had  no  sleep  still.  I  don't  think  she 
closed  her  eyes  during  the  night.  But  here  is  the  chart. 
I'm  dying  for  a  cup  of  tea." 

Despite  the  presence  of  her  watchful  and  critical  fellow- 
nurse,  she  went  over  and  examined  her  patient  minutely 
again.  But  he  was  still  unconscious  of  her  presence. 
She  re-arranged  his  dress  and  the  bed-clothes,  bathed 
his  forehead  and  lips  again,  put  back  the  matted  hair, 


A  FULL  CONFESSION  317 

and  glanced  around.     The  little  nurse  had  thoughtfully 
gone  out,  and  Annie  followed  her. 

When  she  returned  in  the  evening  for  night-duty,  Jack 
Wycherly  was  quite  conscious,  and  somewhat  better. 
There  had  been  no  recurrence  of  hemorrhage  during  the 
day.  But  he  lay  very  still  and  quiet;  and  for  some  time 
he  did  not  notice  the  change  of  nurses,  everything  had 
been  done  so  gently.  He  appeared  to  be  quite  absorbed 
in  his  own  thoughts,  as  he  stared  before  him;  and  Annie 
glided  ^bout  the  room  unnoticed,  went  out,  and  came 
back  again. 

Then  suddenly  she  spoke  and  he  recognized  her,  and 
a  deep  flush  shot  up  and  changed  the  pallor  of  his  face. 
She  noticed  it  and  said  at  once : 

"  You  are  ever  so  much  better,  Mr.  Wycherly.  But 
you  must  keep  awfully  quiet.  You  had  a  slight  hemor- 
rhage, and  we  must  prevent  its  recurrence." 

"  Was  it  slight?  "  he  said.  "  Because  there  is  some  pain 
here." 

He  pointed  to  the  apex  of  the  left  lung. 

"I  mean  slight,  that  is,  of  no  consequence,"  she  an- 
swered, "provided  it  does  not  come  on  again.  And  you 
know  that  the  least  excitement  will  bring  it  on." 

"I  am  altogether  in  your  hands,  Annie,"  he  said 
simply.     "  Do  with  me  what  you  please." 

Ajid  during  the  greater  part  of  the  night  very  few 
words  passed  between  nurse  and  patient;  only  the  latter 
seemed  to  follow  her  with  his  eyes  everywhere  when  he 
was  awake.  He  thanked  her  very  gently  for  all  the  little 
offices  she  performed  for  him,  but  did  not  seem  anxious 
to  enter  into  fuller  conversation. 

The  senior  surgeon,  with  whom  Jack  Wycherly  had 
been  a  favourite  pupil,  came  in  during  the  next  day  to 
see  him.  He  treated  the  boy  with  rough  good-humour, 
but  examined  the  lung  carefully.  He  then  made  a  few 
inquiries  about  his  history,  parentage,  etc.,  and  went 
out  looking  very  grave. 


318  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  never  thought  that  fellow  would  drink,"  he  said 
to  another  surgeon.  "  He  struck  me  as  a  model  of  steadi- 
ness. Still  I  can't  account  for  that  sudden  hemorrhage. 
There  was  a  street  row,  you  say?" 

"Yes,  and  I  think  he  was  struck  violently  just  there. 
It  was  an  unfortunate  affair." 

"We  must  do  something  with  these  young  chaps. 
Hallo!  there,  Fleming!" 

A  young  student  came  over. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  Wycherly's  accident?" 

"No,  sir!"  said  the  student  promptly. 

"And,  of  course,  if  you  did,  you  wouldn't  tell." 

"No,  sir!  But  I  don't  think  there's  much  to  tell. 
Wycherly  was  the  steadiest  fellow  in  the  College;  and 
I'm  sure  'twas  none  of  our  fellows  he  had  the  row  with." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  under  the  influence  of  drink?" 

"  Never,  sir,  'pon  me  —  ahem!  He  might  take  a  liquor, 
like  any  of  us,  but  that's  all!" 

"  I'm  afraid  he  has  taken  one  too  much ! "  said  the  man 
of  science  meaningly. 

Toward  evening  Wycherly  became  very  restless  and 
his  temperature  ran  up  to  102°.  There  was  no  exciting 
cause  apparently;  but  the  nurse  thought  it  necessary 
to  summon  the  resident  surgeon.  It  was  quite  true. 
The  temperature  had  risen.  Of  course  the  approach  of 
night  would  account  for  a  little  increase,  but  not  for  so 
much. 

"Wycherly,"  said  the  surgeon,  "you  are  worrying  or 
fretting  about  something?" 

"No!"  said  the  patient  feebly.     "But  I  feel  feverish." 

"And  you  are  feverish,"  said  the  surgeon.  "Now, 
will  you  keep  your  mind  absolutely  quiet;  and.  Miss 
O'Donnell,  will  you  mention  to  the  night-nurse  that  she 
is  not  to  allow  Mr.  Wycherly  even  to  speak,  except  when 
absolutely  necessary?  This  night's  rest  is  of  supreme 
importance." 

But  during  the  lone  evening  hours,  when  the  failing 


A  FULL    CONFESSION  319 

sunlight  trembled  in  the  sick-room,  and  the  twilight  was 
gathering,  he  seemed  to  become  still  more  restless,  until 
at  last  Annie  arrived,  looking  ever  so  neat  and  cool  and 
spruce  after  her  morning's  rest,  when  he  heaved  a  deep 
sigh  and  closed  his  eyes  as  if  in  peace. 

During  the  next  few  days  he  advanced,  retrograded, 
was  sometimes  in  his  normal  mood,  sometimes  excited, 
to  the  great  astonishment  of  the  surgeon. 

"  Look  here,  Wycherly,"  he  said  one  day,  after  making 
a  paticQ^  and  searching  examination  of  symptoms,  "  there 
is  something  on  your  mind  which  you  ought  to  get  rid 
of.  You  should  be  up  and  moving  about  now;  but  I 
can't  let  you  get  up  with  such  a  pulse  as  that.  And  the 
lung  is  healing  up.  Can't  you  keep  quiet  and  let  mind 
and  body  rest  together?" 

"There's  nothing  on  my  mind,"  said  Jack  Wycherly. 
"  You're  quite  mistaken,  doctor.  It  must  be  some  febrile 
symptoms  lurking  in  the  system." 

"  Of  course,  it  is,"  said  the  doctor  sententiously.  "  They 
are  lurking  in  your  brain  somewhere;  and,  until  you  get 
them  out,  you'll  not  be  well." 

Far  out  in  the  night,  indeed  in  the  very  creeping  in- 
ward of  the  dawn,  the  patient  called  Annie  gently  to  his 
side.     She  came  over.     He  said: 

"Sit  down!" 

Then,  after  a  few  seconds  staring  at  the  ceiling,  he  said, 
almost  in  a  whisper: 

"Annie?" 

"Well?"  she  said,  very  unwilling  to  enter  into  con- 
versation for  many  reasons.  She  was  always  afraid 
now  that  he  would  reveal  himself. 

"The  doctor  says  that  I  am  feverish  because  I  have 
something  on  my  mind.     He's  right.     I  have!" 

She  became  very  nervous  now  and  began  to  ask  herself 
if  she  were  concerned. 

"Then  wouldn't  it  be  well  to  see  a  clergyman?"  she 
suggested,   half   frightened   at   the   possibility   of   being 


320  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

made  the  recipient  of  his  confidences.  "It  will  be  quite 
easy  to  send  for  any  clergyman  of  your  church  whom  you 
may  desire  to  see." 

"  No ! "  he  said  faintly.  "  'Tis  no  crime,  although  God 
knows  I'm  not  faultless.  It  is  something  that  concerns 
you;  and  it  is  to  you  I  must  tell  it." 

Annie  became  very  nervous  now,  and  to  gain  time 
she  said: 

"I  think  I  hear  something  in  the  ward.  I  shaU  be 
back  in  a  moment." 

The  little  run  around  the  adjacent  ward  did  compose 
her  a  little.  Then,  on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  as  she 
returned,  she  paused  to  make  up  her  mind.  The  question 
was,  would  she  listen  or  refuse  to  listen  to  the  young 
student's  explanations.  She  knew  it  meant  pain  and 
anguish  of  spirit  to  herself  —  perhaps  some  revelation 
that  would  banish  her  peace  of  mind  forever.  She  was 
studying  the  gas-jet  over  her  head  as  she  stood  outside 
the  door.  He  coughed  gently  inside;  and,  casting  all 
thought  of  self  aside,  she  made  a  swift,  generous  resolu- 
tion, and  entering  she  sat  down  calmly  by  the  student's 
bedside. 

"I  don't  wish  to  pain  you,  Annie,"  he  said,  "and  I 
shall  be  very  brief.  You  know  —  no,  you  don't  know, 
how  I  hate  and  abominate  myself  for  having  appeared 
before  you,  once,  twice,  thrice,  under  a  shameful  aspect." 

"If  that's  all,  Jack,"  she  said  consolingly,  "dismiss 
it  from  your  mind.  Boys  will  be  boys.  Forget  it  and 
try  to  do  better." 

"That's  your  goodness,"  he  said,  feebly  picking  the 
counterpane,  "but  it  is  not  my  excuse.  Do  you  know 
I'm  glad  this  has  occurred,"  he  pointed  to  his  chest.  "I 
was  on  the  high  road  to  ruin  —  through  despair." 

She  now  remembered  his  words  with  a  pang. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  he  said;  "I  have  been  stopped  on 
the  very  brink  of  perdition.  My  life  is  forfeit,  but  I  am 
saved." 

She  thought  these  were  evangelical  ideas  belonging  to 


A  FULL  CONFESSION  321 

•his  religion;  and  she  paid  no  heed  to  them.  She  felt 
relieved. 

"Tell  me,  Annie,"  he  said  after  a  pause,  "does  your 
religion  bind  you  to  believe  in  hell  —  retribution?" 

"Yes!"  she  said.  "But,  my  dear  Mr.  Wycherly,  I  am 
awfully  ignorant.  I  know  nothing  of  these  things. 
Won't  you  consult  your  clergyman?" 

He  smiled  grimly. 

"I  am  not  going  to  force  religion  on  you,"  he  said. 
"It  was  one  of  our  bargains  long  ago,  Annie,  when  you 
taught  me  the  Latin  grammar!  But  there  is  a  hell, 
Annie,  and  I  have  gone  through  it.  It  is  to  worship 
far  away  and  far  off  some  great  being,  and  then  to  know 
that  you  have  made  yourself  forever  unworthy  of 
her!" 

Annie  stood  up  to  go.  He  was  startled,  and  piteously 
begged  her  to  remain. 

"  I  promise  —  my  head  is  somewhat  light,  Annie,  and 
I  have  weakly  betrayed  myself  —  not  to  hurt  your  feel- 
ings again.     Would  you  let  me  have  a  little  milk?" 

She  got  some  milk  and  soda;  and  raised  and  supported 
the  boy's  head,  whilst  he  sipped  it. 

He  lay  back  refreshed  on  his  pillow,  and  she  was  hoping 
that  she  would  hear  no  more.  But  after  a  few  seconds' 
pause  he  continued: 

"Let  me  come  to  the  point  at  once  and  have  done 
with  it.  You  know,  Annie,  that  I  was  struck  on  that 
night  when  I  was  brought  in  here?" 

"  Yes ! "  she  said.     "  So  the  report  has  it. " 

"  And  probably  you  supposed  it  was  a  wretched  street- 
brawl?" 

She  was  silent. 

"Unfortunately  no,"  he  continued.  "It  was  my 
brother,  Ned  —  you  remember  Ned  —  who  gave  me  my 
death-blow,  and  it  was  all  on  your  account." 

She  gave  a  gasp  of  surprise  and  horror. 

"Yes!"  he  went  on,  as  if  to  himself,  "you  have  a  right 
to  be  shocked  and  even  to  feel  that  it  is  an  insult.  Many 
22 


322  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAl 

a  time  I  have  regretted  that  you  should  have  ever  known 

us." 

"I  have  never  regretted  it,"  she  said.  "If  it  was  only 
to  have  made  your  good  father's  acquaintance,  I  should 
be  glad  of  it." 

"Thank  you,  Annie,"  he  said.  "These  are  kind,  and 
I  know  they  are  truthful  words.  And  —  he  is  grateful. 
But  for  other  reasons,  I  regretted  it.  Tell  me,  did 
Edward,  Ned,  ever  insult  you?" 

"I  think,  Mr.  Wycherly,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  serv- 
ing any  good  purpose  in  calling  up  such  things.  They 
have  long  since  passed  from  my  memory  and  I  would 
rather  not  recall  them." 

"That's  because  you  are  generous  and  forgiving,"  he 
said.  "But  Ned  and  my  father  have  fallen  out  about 
something  —  something  serious.  My  father  has  told  him 
he  must  never  inherit  Rohira,  nor  any  of  his  property." 

He  stopped  to  recover  breath, 

"  In  fact,  I  think  father  intends  that  I  should  be  the 
future  owner  of  the  place;  and  he  has  written  to  me  to 
ascertain  if  I  would  abandon  my  profession.  On  the 
other  hand,  Kerins  —  you  remember  Kerins,  who  holds 
Crossfields,  just  above  Rohira?  —  is  leaving  for  America, 
and  Ned,  who  has  money,  is  negotiating  for  the  purchase. 
He  intends  to  settle  there." 

"That  would  be  disagreeable  for  your  father,  would 
it  not?"  asked  Annie. 

"Certainly,  he  will  not  like  it,"  said  the  boy.  "But 
Ned  will  only  buy  Crossfields  on  one  condition,  namely 
that  you  will  be  his  wife!" 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  the  tumult  of  anger, 
shame,  and  wounded  pride  that  swept  over  the  soul  of 
the  girl  at  these  words.  She  was  silent  for  a  while  with 
indignation  and  could  only  say  in  a  tone  of  astonishment 
and  incredulity: 

"Me?  What  a  shame!  You  shouldn't  have  said  such 
a  thing,  Mr.  Wycherly.  I  would  take  it  as  an  insult 
from  any  other  person." 


A  FULL  CONFESSION  323 

"And  you  would  be  quite  right,"  he  continued,  more 
calmly,  as  if  he  had  been  reassured  on  an  important 
point.  "  But  you  understand  my  motives.  Let  me  con- 
tinue. The  rest  is  brief.  He  came  up  to  town  that  day 
for  no  other  reason  than  to  find  out  where  you  resided 
and  place  his  wishes  before  you.  He  dined  at  my  lodg- 
ings, apd  far  out  in  the  evening,  when  he  had  taken 
drink,  he  opened  up  his  mind  to  me.  I  couldn't  conceal 
my  disgust,  and  —  alas!  —  I,  too,  drank  freely  then. 
Several  times  he  urged  me  to  communicate  with  you; 
and,  when  I  refused,  he  wanted  me  to  tell  him  where 
you  lived,  at  what  hour  he  might  call,  at  what  hour  he 
might  see  you,  etc.  I  gave  no  information;  and  to  rid 
myself  of  the  annoyance  I  left  the  house,  and  went  into 
the  street.  Half-mad  from  drink  and  anger,  he  followed 
me  and  persisted  in  annoying  me.  Then,  suddenly  using 
words  that  I  shall  not  repeat,  he  struck  me  violently 
in  the  chest,  and  instantly  I  knew  my  mouth  was  full 
of  blood.  'Ned,  you've  killed  me,'  I  said.  And  then  I 
fell  senseless." 

The  little  gas-jet  was  singing  softly  to  itself  as  the  stu- 
dent ended  his  story,  and  there  was  much  silence  in  the 
room.  He  appeared  relieved,  but  Annie  was  struck  with 
horror  at  the  thought  of  this  man's  pursuing  her.  Then 
a  more  gentle  idea  swept  across  her  mind,  and  she  remem- 
bered that  this  boy  had  given  his  life  for  her  sake.  She 
instantly  recalled  herself  to  a  sense  of  duty  and  stood  up. 

"I  hope  your  mind  is  quite  relieved?"  she  said. 

"Quite  so,"  he  replied.  "But  I  fear  I  have  thrown 
over  the  burden  upon  you.     But,  Annie  —  " 

"Well?"  she  said,  somewhat  impatiently,  for  her 
mind  was  torn  with  anguish. 

"I  mustn't  distress  you  further,"  he  murmured,  "but 
surely  —  no !  —  I  cannot  say  it ! " 

"  Say  what  you  please,"  she  replied  rather  coldly. 

"I  mean,  Annie,  that  I  hope,  in  fact  I'm  sure,  you  will 
never  dream  of  entertaining  for  a  moment  the  idea  —  " 

He  stopped  short.     He  could  not  utter  the  word. 


324  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  mean,"  he  continued,  trying  to  get  a  mild  equivalent 
in  words  for  the  thought  that  was  burning  his  mind, 
"that  you  will  never  allow  Ned  to  address  you  on  that 
subject." 

"Make  your  mind  at  rest,"  she  said.  "He  will  never 
address  me." 

The  day-surgeon  found  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day  that  the  patient's  temperature  was  quite  normal. 
And  in  a  few  days  he  was  permitted  to  leave  his  room. 
But  to  every  anxious  inquiry  as  to  whether  the  disease 
would  disappear,  or  reappear  under  more  alarming  cir- 
cumstances, the  senior  surgeon  only  shook  his  head. 


i 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 


Conspiring 


Dick  Duggan  was  growing  impatient.  In  his  constant 
supervision  over  Kerins  and  his  covetous  watchfulness 
over  Crossfields  farm,  he  had  noticed  that  Kerins  was  not 
drinking  himself  into  his  grave  half-fast  enough  for  his 
wishes.  He  would  have  put  a  distillery  at  his  door,  if 
he  could  expedite  the  ruin  of  this  man,  who  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  felicity.  But,  somehow,  Kerins  seemed  to 
have  stood  still  and  paused  on  the  brink  of  ruin;  and  to 
Dick's  intense  disgust,  after  some  weeks  had  passed  by, 
it  was  noticed  that  the  young  priest.  Father  Henry  Liston, 
was  in  the  habit  of  visiting  there;  that,  as  a  probable 
result  thereof,  Kerins  had  given  up  drink  absolutely;  and 
that,  as  a  climax  to  the  calamity,  Mass  had  been  said  in 
Crossfields,  and  rumour  had  it  that  Kerins  had  been  to 
Confession  and  Communion. 

This  was  intolerable.  The  hopes  that  had  been  sud- 
denly raised  were  now  dashed  to  the  ground.  It  was 
quite  clear  that,  under  the  care  and  zealous  watchfulness 
of  the  young  priest,  Kerins  had  turned  over  a  new  leaf 
in  life,  and  might  now  be  considered  once  more  on  the 
high  road  to  prosperity.  Dick  Duggan  gave  up  his  morn- 
ing vigils  and  remained  in  bed,  instead  of  sullenly  con- 
templating the  gray  thatched  roof  and  the  dewy  fields 
that  lay  around  the  coveted  farm.  But  it  created  an 
additional  grievance  against  the  priests,  whose  untimely 
zeal  had  wrested,  as  he  thought,  the  prize  from  his  grasp. 
It  roused  at  the  same  time  a  secret  fury  in  his  soul  against 
the  man  on  whose  misfortunes  he  had  been  hoping  to 
build  up  his  own  prosperity. 

325 


326  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

There  was  another  person,  also  interested  and  still 
more  deeply  annoyed  by  the  sudden  conversion  of  Kerins 
from  a  sot  to  a  decent,  industrious  man.  Ned  Wycherly 
now  saw  clearly  that  a  prize  was  slipping  from  his  grasp 
—  perhaps  a  double  prize,  because  how  could  he  ask  Annie 
O'Farrell  to  marry  him,  if  he  had  no  home  to  offer  her? 
Again  and  again  he  approached  Kerins  on  the  subject, 
always  meeting  evasive  answers,  which  became  by  de- 
grees emphatic  refusals.  It  was  just  before  that  period, 
and  whilst  he  still  clung  to  the  hope  that  he  would  pur- 
chase Crossfields,  that  he  went  to  the  City  to  see  Annie 
O'Farrell  and  strive  to  gain  her  consent. 

All  these  dreams  had  now  vanished,  and  he  saw  him- 
self an  outcast  from  his  father's  home  and  with  little  but 
a  hopeless  future  before  him. 

It  was  in  one  of  his  angry  and  despairful  moods  he  met 
Dick  Duggan  one  evening  and  gradually  brought  the 
subject  about  in  their  conversation.  They  met  in  the 
boreen  that  ran  down  from  the  rear  of  Crossfields  farm 
toward  Dunkerrin  Castle.  Wycherly  was  coming  up 
from  the  beach,  and  Dick  was  going  to  see  Pete  on  some 
secret  errand. 

"You  needn't  go  down,"  said  Ned  Wycherly.  "Pete 
is  coming  up  to  the  house  with  some  messages  after  me 
and  will  be  here  directly." 

"We  do  be  sayin',  Masther  Ned,"  said  Dick,  "that 
some  day  or  another  that  same  Pete  will  be  after  getting 
himself  and  others  into  throuble." 

"How  is  that?"  said  Wycherly.  "Pete  is  an  honest 
fellow  enough  —  that  is,  as  honest  as  any  half-dozen  of 
my  acquaintance.  He  works  well;  and,  if  his  women 
steal  a  little,  sure  that's  in  their  gypsy  blood." 

"  Thrue  for  you ! "  said  Dick.  "  But  the  law  of  the  land 
is  a  wondherful  thing  intirely.  It  has  very  long  arrums 
and  very  sharp  eyes." 

"Not  sharper  than  a  g}Tsy's>  especially  a  gypsy 
woman's,"  said  Wycherly.  "Besides,  no  one  around 
here  is  going  to  bother  about  an  occasional  goose  or  hen." 


CONSPIRING  327 

"If  you  were  to  hear  the  Yank  in  his  liquor  swearin' 
at  'em,  you  wouldn't  think  so,"  said  Dick.  "I  heard 
him  wan  night  some  months  ago ;  an'  he  was  sayin'  things 
that  would  wake  up  even  a  barrack  of  police." 

"They  say  he's  not  going  to  America  now,"  said 
Wycherly,  anxious  enough  to  turn  the  conversation, 
which  -^as  verging  on  dangerous  issues.  "  He  has  sobered 
up;  and  some  of  my  men  told  me  they  saw  a  van  of 
furniture  going  in  there  this  week." 

"'Twill  go  out  agin  the  same  way,"  said  Dick.  "And 
that  before  long.     Here's  Pete!" 

The  g}'psy,  holding  a  coil  of  rope  loosely  on  one  arm 
and  the  rudder  of  a  small  punt  in  the  other,  came  lightly 
up  the  pathway.  He  had  seen  the  two  men  in  close 
conversation  whilst  he  was  far  away,  but  he  now  seemed 
to  start  slightly  and  to  be  somewhat  disturbed  at  meeting 
them.     He  drew  back  a  little,  but  Wycherly  said  cheerily: 

"Come  on,  Pete!  There's  no  one  here  but  Duggan, 
and  he  has  some  business  with  you." 

"Oh,  'tis  nothin'  at  all,  nothin'  at  all,"  said  Dick 
with  affected  cheerfulness.  "Only  the  loant  of  some- 
thin'  I  wanted  down  at  the  ould  castle.  But  it  can 
wait." 

"  Did  you  hear  that  Kerins  had  given  up  the  notion  of 
America?"  said  Wycherly,  addressing  Pete. 

"Yes!"  said  Pete,  looking  earnestly  at  Dick  Duggan. 
"He's  furnishing  up  the  old  place  and  is  about  to  be 
married." 

"There,  Duggan,  you  see  I  was  right,"  said  Wycherly 
maliciously.  "The  'little  father'  knows  everything 
worth  knowing.  But  Dick  says  he  can't  hold  it  long," 
he  continued,  addressing  Pete.  "He  says  that  the 
new  furniture  will  be  soon  going  out  the  way  it  came 
in." 

"I  doubt  that,"  said  the  little  father  gravely.  "He's 
a  stubborn  fellow,  that  Kerins,  and  when  he  once  takes 
a  right  turn  he'll  stick  to  it." 

"  Unless  some  wan  gives  him  a  showlder  and  puts  him 


328  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

in  the  wrong  turn  agin,"  said  Dick,  whose  temper  was 
gradually  rising. 

"Well,  in  any  case,  I  fear  you'll  have  to  wait  for 
the  young  mistress  and  Crossfields,  Dick,"  said  Wych- 
erly,  who  was  anxious  to  get  from  Dick  all  that  he 
knew. 

"Yes!  Masther  Ned,"  said  the  angry  peasant.  "And 
I'm  afraid  your  honour  will  have  to  wait,  too,  before  you 
add  Crossfields  to  Rohira  and  bring  the  priesht's  niece 
in  wid  you." 

"There  was  no  danger  of  that,"  said  Wycherly,  coolly 
fanning  the  flames  of  the  poor  fellow's  passion.  "There 
was  religion  barring  the  way  there.  But  why  should 
Dolly  SuUivan  give  you  the  'go-by,'  Dick,  and  take  to 
the  Yank?  It  is  a  shame  for  a  fine  fellow  like  you  to 
allow  that  splendid  girl  to  throw  herself  away  on  an  old 
dried-up  curmudgeon  like  Kerins." 

It  is  the  unhappy  lot,  hitherto,  of  the  Irish  peasant  that 
he  has  never  learned  to  curb  his  temper.  It  is  the  great 
traitor  of  his  race.  When  it  is  touched,  there  is  no  secret 
so  deep  that  it  may  not  be  revealed,  no  resolution  so 
strong  that  it  may  not  be  repealed.  Wycherly  knew 
well  how  to  play  on  the  double  organ,  whose  keys  elicit 
truth,  even  though  they  drive  out  dangerous  sparks  with 
it  —  the  double  organ  of  jealousy  and  hate. 

Some  faint  suspicion  that  Martha  Sullivan  had  been 
won  from  his  side  by  this  detested  Yankee  had  already 
winged  its  way  to  Dick  Duggan's  ears,  but  had  been 
promptly  rejected  as  impossible.  Now,  apparently,  it 
was  the  talk  of  the  parish,  and,  coupled  with  the  refur- 
nishing of  the  house,  it  brought  a  terrible  conviction  home 
to  the  heart  of  the  unhappy  man.  He  had  lost  Crossfields 
forever,  and  he  had  been  jilted  in  favour  of  a  detested 
rival.  His  cup  of  bitterness  was  full.  His  dark,  swarthy 
face  became  livid  under  the  terrible  excitement,  as  he 
clenched  his  fists  together  and  said : 

"  You  may  be  jokin,'  or  you  may  be  in  aimest,  Masther 
Ned,  an'  I'm  thinkin'  the  joke  will  be  turned  agin  you 


CONSPIRING  329 

yet,  and  that  you'll  laugh  at  the  other  side  of  your  mouth, 
if  all  the  people  do  be  say  in'  is  thrue.  But  that's  your 
own  affair.  An'  'tis  your  own  affair,  too,  that  the  priesht's 
niece,  widout  a  pinny  to  bless  herself  wid,  have  given 
you  the  cowld  showlder.  But,  in  respect  of  Kerins, 
don't  ht  afeared  that  anny  man  or  'uman  in  the  parish 
'ud  laugh  at  me.  For,  by  the  Lord  God,  I'll  make  sich 
an  example  of  Kerins,  an'  all  belonging  to  him,  an'  all 
that  have  anythin'  to  say  to  him,  that  it'll  be  reraimbered 
in  the  parish  as  long  as  the  ould  castle  shtands  there 
forninst  the  sea." 

"Take  care!"  said  Wycherly  carelessly,  "he  carries 
his  shooting-irons  with  him  wherever  he  goes,  and  a 
bullet  goes  faster  than  a  shillelah." 

"An'  there's  somethin'  faster  than  a  bullet,"  said 
Dick  savagely,  as  he  moved  away,  "and  it  makes  no 
noise." 

"He's  a  dangerous  man,"  said  Wycherly  to  Pete,  as 
Dick  passed  out  of  sight.  "I  shouldn't  care  to  meet 
him  in  the  dark,  if  he  had  anything  against  me.  But 
look  here,  Pete!  He  was  hinting  at  our  own  affairs  just 
before  you  came  up.  The  chase  is  getting  hot  again, 
and  I  think  I  shall  take  another  run  to  sea." 

"  The  last  didn't  serve  you  much,"  said  Pete.  "  I  told 
you  you  made  a  mistake  in  leaving  the  old  man  too  much 
alone.  You  have  given  in  too  easily.  You  may  not  win 
the  wife  you  hoped  for;  but,  as  the  people  about  here 
say,  'There's  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  were  caught.' 
But  there's  only  one  Rohira." 

"True!"  said  Wycherly,  musing.  "But  you  don't 
know  how  stubborn  the  old  man  is.  He  never  liked  me. 
Everything  is  coming  out  against  me.  And  we  are  cer- 
tainly in  some  danger  now.  There  are  spies  somewhere. 
You  heard  what  Duggan  said  about  Kerins  and  his  talk 
when  he's  in  liquor." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  "  little  father,"  "  Kerins  stands  in  every- 
body's way." 


330  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

And  the  remark  led  him  into  a  mood  of  musing,  from 
which  the  impatient  Wycherly  aroused  him. 

"I  suppose  you've  heard  that  Jack  has  been  very 
unwell  and  is  coming  home?" 
"Yes!  I  have  heard,"  said  Pete. 
"He  may  get  over  this,  or  he  may  probably  be  ordered 
abroad,"  said  Wycherly.  "I  was  thinking  that  perhaps 
we  might  get  a  message  from  the  —  sea-spirit  to  my 
father  in  connexion  with  Jack." 

"A  message?     Yes!"  said  Pete,  not  comprehending. 
"I  mean  a  word  from  —  my  —  my  —  ,"  the  horrid 
words  seemed  to  choke  him,  "my  mother  to  the  effect 
that  this  illness  of  Jack's  is  a  punishment,  a  retribution, 
or  something  for  my  father's  treatment  of  me." 
"Ha!"  said  Pete,  grasping  at  the  idea. 
"You  know,  Pete,"  said  Wycherly,  appeahng  to  the 
selfish  nature  of  the  man,  "you  and  yours  can  never  be 
safe  under  a  stranger.     If  Jack  comes  in,  out  you  go. 
If  I  can  take  my  rightful  place  as  master  here,  you  and 
the  old  woman  and  your  children  are  safe  forever." 

"Unless  I  am  jugged,"  said  Pete,  with  a  shrug  of  the 
shoulders,  "which  is  as  likely  as  not.  But,"  he  added, 
his  dark  eyes  kindling  into  a  blaze  as  he  spoke,  "  I  won't 
go  down  without  bringing  many  with  me." 

''That's  quite  right!"  said  Wycherly.  "But  the 
quietest  way  of  working  our  point  is  the  best,  so  long 
as  we  can  pursue  it.  If  we  can  wind  up  this  little  busi- 
ness of  ours,  which  is  becoming  more  dangerous  every 
day,  and  if  we  can  get  the  old  man  to  change  his  mind,  all 
will  be  well.  I  look  upon  Jack  as  already  out  of  my  way." 
"The  old  woman  foretold  it,"  said  Pete.  "The  even- 
ing these  young  ladies  were  here,  Judith  told  them  that 
the  spirit  of  his  mother  was  calling  him  to  come." 

"Ha!  very  good,"  said  Wycherly.  "Let  us  have 
another  message  from  the  dead,  and  all  will  be  right 
with  father." 

"I'll  see!"  said  Pete.  Then,  as  if  another  idea  was 
preoccupying  him,  he  said: 


CONSPIRING  331 

"  Which  of  the  two  is  the  more  dangerous  for  us  — 
Kerins  or  Duggan?" 

Wycherly  reflected  a  little. 

"Kerins,  certainly!  Duggan  is  little  better  than  a 
fool!     Have  you  got  away  the  last  of  that  ensilage?" 

"  Not  all.  There  are  a  few  packages  still  left.  But 
all's  right  now.  That  pressed  hay  was  a  good  idea. 
There  isn't  the  slightest  suspicion." 

He  turned  away,  muttering: 

"Pity  you  haven't  more  nerve.  What  a  fortune  was 
in  our  hands." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

The  Sea-Spirit  Vanishes 

Christmas  came  in  that  year,  not  softly  and  muggily, 
with  down-hanging  skies  and  weeping  clouds,  bringing 
to  many  lips  the  old  adage:  "A  green  Christmas  makes 
a  fat  churchyard";  but  it  came  in  its  white  ermine  and 
diamonds  of  frost  and  white  pearls  of  icicles  pendent 
from  slated  roof  and  lowly  thatch;  and  the  snowy  raiment 
stretched  down  thick  and  soft,  from  the  roofs  of  Rohira 
along  the  steep  slope  that  plunged  downward  to  the  sea, 
whose  dark  expanses,  unflecked  even  by  the  foam  of 
breakers,  extended  in  one  unbroken  line  towards  the 
melancholy  horizon.  Picturesque  and  coldly  beautiful  as 
it  was,  there  was  an  aspect  of  sadness  and  loneliness 
around  it,  as  of  a  land  of  death  and  a  sea  of  desolation; 
where  the  imagination  could  hardly  conjure  up  the  dream 
of  departed  summers,  or  summers  yet  to  be,  but  now 
coiled  up  and  hidden  beneath  the  fierce  frown  of  a  wintry 
landscape. 

So  thought  Jack  Wycherly,  as  he  walked  from  the  fire 
to  the  window,  from  the  window  to  the  fire,  gazing  into 
the  latter  as  if  he  saw  there  his  life  and  fortunes  crum- 
bling into  white  ashes  under  the  blaze  of  destiny,  and 
watching  the  dreary  prospect  from  the  window,  as  one  who 
was  studying  a  scene  which  he  was  not  to  see  again.  He 
was  deeply  depressed.  Conscious  of  great  powers,  and 
with  that  consciousness  confirmed  by  the  verdict  of  his 
superiors,  he  had  been  pushing  along  the  paths  of  his 
profession  with  all  that  buoyancy  and  hope  that  belong 
to  gifted  and  impassioned  youth.  He  saw  a  great  career 
opened  before  him,  leading  on  to  honours  and  emoluments, 

332 


THE  SEA-SPIRIT  VANISHES  333 

and  terminating  only  at  the  highest  pinnacle  of  earthly 
success.  And  now,  suddenly,  there  trickles  across  that 
sunlit  path  a  tiny  stream  of  blood;  and  the  whole  vision 
is  blotted  out  forever.  For  he  knew  quite  enough  of 
medical  science  to  understand  that  he  was  now  drifting 
into  that  state  where  medical  skill  was  practically  un- 
availing; and  all  that  could  be  done  was  to  avert  the  evil 
day.  And  so  the  young  student  strode  from  the  fire  to 
the  window,  from  the  window  to  the  fire,  his  dreary 
thoughts  broken  only  by  the  harsh,  dry  cough,  which 
instantly  brought  out  the  handkerchief  and  the  terrible 
inquisition,  was  blood  there? 

Edward  Wycherly  had  left  the  house  and  had  gone  no 
one  knew  where,  except  perhaps  Pete  the  Gypsy.  Whether 
it  was  a  second  or  third  angry  altercation  he  had  with 
his  father,  or  that  he  dreaded  meeting  the  victim  of  his 
drunken  passion,  he  had  fled  the  place;  and  the  common 
report,  "Gone  to  sea,"  had  to  satisfy  the  imagination 
of  those  who  knew  nothing  of  the  many  secrets  of  his 
life. 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  Dr.  Wycherly,  coming  into  the 
room  where  Jack  was  striding  up  and  down,  "  we  shall 
have  a  lonely  Christmas.  I  was  expecting  a  letter  from 
Dion.  He  ought  to  have  written  at  least  at  such  a  time. 
We  are  rather  a  scattered  flock  now." 

Jack  strode  up  and  down  the  well-worn  carpet  in 
silence.     Then  he  went  to  the  window. 

"Most  families  are  scattered  abroad  at  Christmas 
time,"  he  said. 

"Of  course,"  said  his  father,  plunging  his  hands  deep 
into  the  pockets  of  his  velvet  jacket,  "that  is  the  case 
where  the  young  are  grown  up  and  have  left  the  nest. 
Although  I  don't  like  the  fellow  at  all,  I'm  half  sorry 
Ned  didn't  remain  over  the  New  Year." 

Jack  coughed  slightly  at  the  window  and  looked  at 
his  handkerchief. 

"There  is  no  sign  of  blood?"  said  his  father,  who  saw 
the  action. 


334  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"No!"  said  Jack.  "And  I  know  it  is  foolish  to  be  so 
nervous  about  it.  But  when  one  has  got  a  bad  fright, 
it  sticks  to  him." 

"  I  still  can't  bring  myself  to  believe  that  it  was  entirely- 
constitutional,  as  your  doctors  say.  I  don't  believe  the 
lung  could  have  softened  so  much  without  some  symp- 
toms revealing  themselves.  I'm  sure  it  was  some  accident. 
You  pushed  against  something,  or  strained  yourself  in 
some  way.     And  you  know  that  doesn't  count  for  much. " 

"  I'm  afraid  you  are  too  sanguine,  father,"  Jack  replied. 
"I  don't  deceive  myself.  The  symptoms  are  unmis- 
takable." 

"That  means  you're  going  abroad  also?"  said  his 
father  querulously.  "If  phthisis  reveals  itself,  this 
would  be  no  climate  for  you  to  dwell  in." 

And  the  white,  dismal  landscape  and  the  steel-gray 
sky  and  the  melancholy  ocean  seemed  to  reply:  "Yes! 
This  is  no  place  for  an  invalid.  Let  him  go,  and  as  speed- 
ily as  possible ! " 

That  evening  after  dinner  the  doctor  introduced  the 
subject  again. 

" Strange,"  he  said,  "not  a  hne  as  yet  from  Dion.  One 
would  think  he  could  not  forget  the  old  home  at  such  a 
time." 

The  old  butler  in  the  faded  coat  had  put  a  few  sprigs 
of  holly  here  and  there  in  heavy  vases  on  the  mantel- 
piece, in  crevices  on  the  great  massive  sideboard,  in  the 
heavy  mouldings  of  picture-frames  which  held  the  cracked 
and  crumbling  portraits  of  bygone  Wycherlys.  But 
nothing,  not  even  the  heavy  silver,  nor  the  crystal  of  the 
cut-glass,  nor  the  masses  of  violets  and  early  primulas 
that  filled  the  room  with  the  odours  of  spring,  could  dis- 
sipate the  gloom  that  hung  down  on  that  dark  chamber 
and  seemed  to  interpenetrate  every  nook  and  cranny  of 
it,  even  to  the  inmost  recesses  of  the  human  hearts  that 
beat  there. 

"Strange,"  said  the  old  doctor,  as  if  he  were  unravel- 


THE  SEA-SPIRIT  VANISHES  335 

ling  the  threads  of  several  incidents  that  had  occurred 
during  the  day  and  was  trying  to  frame  something  co- 
herent from  them,  "  strange  that  old  woman  —  that  old 
gypsy  woman,  Judith,  challenged  me  to-day  in  the  hall 
and  told  me  that  the  spirit  of  my  dead  wife  would  come 
no  more.  She  spoke  in  that  prophetic  manner  she  as- 
sume/ sometimes,  as  if  she  had  direct  communication 
with  the  Unseen.  I  tried  to  shake  it  off  —  the  spell,  I 
mean  —  the  fascination  she  seems  to  exercise  over  me 
when  she  assumes  that  style  of  talking." 

"She's  a  thorough  schemer  and  humbug,"  said  Jack 
Wycherly  hotly.  "I  am  ever  so  sorry,  father,  that  you 
allowed  that  vicious  family  to  remain  on  your  estate. 
I  trace  all  the  evils  that  have  befallen  our  family  to  their 
presence." 

"That's  quite  an  absurd  prejudice,"  said  his  father 
moodily.  "They  are  harmless,  if  rude;  and  then  they 
always  seemed  to  be  a  link  with  the  dear  dead  past. 
They  have  always  told  me  when  the  spirit  of  my  dear 
wife  appeared  to  haunt  the  dear  old  spot  that  was  so 
much  beloved  by  her.  I  shouldn't  know  it  but  for  them. 
An  ordinary  Irish  family  would  be  scared  and  frightened. 
Not  so  these  people!  I  suppose,"  he  went  on  dreamily, 
"it  is  their  Egyptian  origin,  their  handling  strange  and 
mysterious  things  for  centuries,  that  makes  them  familiar 
with  the  powers  that  lie  outside  our  vision.  But  it  has 
been  for  these  few  years  a  strange  consolation  to  know 
that  your  dear  dead  mother  was  not  cut  away  from  us 
forever,  but  came  as  a  kind  of  sea-spirit  to  show  us  that 
the  things  of  eternity  had  not  altogether  cut  her  away 
from  sympathy  with  those  whom  she  loved  in  the  flesh." 

There  was  a  sharp  struggle  in  the  boy's  mind  as  to 
whether  he  would  dissipate  that  foolish,  if  fond,  dream 
forever,  or  leave  his  father  in  happy  ignorance  of  the 
deception.     But  he  inquired  further: 

"And  Jude  thinks  the  apparition  has  ceased  and  will 
not  trouble  the  slumbers  of  the  people  again?" 

"Yes!    But  that's  a  harsh  way  of  putting  it,  Jack. 


336  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

The  spirit  of  your  mother,  the  sea-spirit,  has  troubled 
no  one  —  nay,  has  been  a  consolation  to  many  and  a 
strengthening  of  fainting  faith." 

"But  did  Jude  give  any  reason  why  this  apparition 
should  cease?"  asked  his  son.  "Why  now,  and  not  at 
any  time  these  past  four  or  five  years?" 

"Yes!"  said  his  father  uneasily.  "She  seems  to  hint 
that  it  is  because  the  natural  heir  of  the  house  has  —  gone 
away  and  will  not  return,  and  because  —  " 

But  here  he  stopped,  unwilling  to  hurt  the  feelings  of 
the  stricken  boy. 

"  You  mean,  dear  father,"  said  Jack,  "  that  my  mother's 
wraith,  as  you  believe,  has  departed  in  anger,  because 
there  is  no  longer  an  heir  to  Rohira?" 

"Not  in  anger!  I  didn't  say  in  anger.  Jack,"  said  his 
father  piteously.  "But,  you  see,  very  naturally,  when 
the  fortunes  of  our  house  are  falling  into  decay,  the  good 
angel  of  the  house  deserts  it." 

The  boy  coughed  slightly  and  looked  at  his  handkerchief. 

"We  must  now,"  said  his  father,  noticing  the  gesture, 
"or  immediately  after  the  holidays,  ascertain  if  there 
are  bacilli  in  that  sputum.  I  don't  think  myself  there 
are.  In  fact,  from  experience  I  would  rather  judge  that 
there  are  not.  These  hemorrhages,  and  you  had  only 
one,  Jack,  are  not  the  dangerous  symptoms.  They  are 
quite  compatible  with  perfect  health.  But  should  there 
be  any  symptoms  of  phthisis,  we  must  get  you  away 
to  a  warm,  dry  climate  —  South  Africa,  by  preference, 
for  some  time.     But  there's  time  enough,  time  enough." 

"That's  the  opinion  of  our  senior  surgeon,  too,"  said 
Jack  Wycherly.  "It  is  not  a  pleasant  prospect,  but  we 
have  to  submit  to  our  destinies." 

The  poor  lad  was  suffering  under  violent  emotion  and 
he  went  over  and  lay  down  on  a  sofa  near  the  fire,  think- 
ing of  many  things. 

Down  at  the  presbytery  the  same  three  persons  who 
were  assembled  together  that  Christmas  night  four  or 


THE  SEA-SPIRIT  VANISHES  337 

five  years  ago,  the  old  blind  pastor,  his  curate,  and  his 
niece,  were  also  met  together  on  this  Christmas  night. 
The  room  was  unchanged  in  appearance.  One  would 
have  thought  it  was  the  identical  fire  that  was  leaping 
and  sparkling  in  the  grate.  It  was  certainly  the  same 
picture  of  the  Holy  Family  that  looked  down  upon  the 
living,  as  it  was  the  self -same  carpet,  though  more  worn 
and  frayed,  that  was  beneath  their  feet.  The  self-same 
lamp  threw  its  mellow,  softened  light  on  the  table  and 
lit  up  the  long  rows  of  leather-covered  books,  that  seemed 
never  to  have  been  removed  from  their  places.  But  the 
living  were  changed,  fearfully  changed,  even  to  their 
own  eyes. 

Darkness,  almost  absolute,  had  come  down  on  the  old 
priest's  eyes,  which  were  shaded  by  glasses  so  darkly 
blue  that  they  seemed  black  in  the  lamp-light.  His 
hair  had  thinned  to  baldness  and  his  cheeks  were  more 
deeply  furrowed,  either  by  anxious  thought  or  the  very 
absence  of  that  intellectual  exercise  which  alone  could 
dissipate  it.  His  strong  fierce  temper  had  degenerated 
into  a  kind  of  gentle  moroseness,  which  was  seldom 
lighted  up  by  the  old  flashes  of  humour  that  made  his 
companionship  so  delightful.  His  sun  was  sinking  under 
clouds,  growing  deeper  and  darker  as  they  approached 
the  horizon. 

His  curate  was  also  changed,  not  so  much  in  appearance 
as  in  thought  and  experience.  Yet  the  new  spiritual 
life  he  had  been  leading  had  matured  and  ripened  his 
intellect  so  far  that  it  became  apparent  in  manner,  which, 
soft  and  refined  as  ever,  had  yet  lost  that  elasticity  and 
boyish  eagerness  that  had  formerly  characterized  him. 
He  had  become  sober,  without  being  dull;  calm  without 
being  stolid ;  and  there  was  a  certain  halo  of  peace  around 
his  eyes  and  forehead  that  spoke  of  a  spiritual  life  not 
altogether  sequestered  from  human  interests  and  passions. 

The  change  in  Annie  O'Farrell  was  only  the  change 
from  girlhood  to  womanhood,  a  little  emphasized  by  her 
training  and  habits,  and  also  by  some  new  strange  experi- 
23 


338  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

ence  that  seemed  to  be  kindling  itself  in  her  heart  and 
that  gave  to  life  a  new  idealization  and  pleasure,  and  not 
a  little  pain. 

She  had  put  aside  her  nurse's  uniform  and  was  dressed 
in  a  close-fitting  gray  costume  that  seemed  to  suit  her 
tall  and  graceful  figure.  Her  coiled  hair  marked  her 
entrance  into  the  sphere  of  womanhood,  and  her  pro- 
fession seemed  to  have  stamped  on  her  manner  a  certain 
decision  and  promptness,  that  at  once  demanded  obe- 
dience and  respect.  Somehow,  these  excellent  qualities 
seemed  also  to  detract  a  little  from  feminine  gracefulness 
and  helplessness,  so  true  is  it  that  no  accomplishment 
or  grace  is  acquired  except  at  the  cost  of  something  cor- 
responding. But  this  apparent  loss  vanished  on  ac- 
quaintance, and  the  old,  gentle,  playful,  feminine  if  firm 
nature  revealed  itself  through  the  cloak  of  professional 
strength  and  severity. 

There  seemed,  too,  to  be  a  slight  restraint  hovering 
over  this  family  party  on  this  Christmas  night  —  a  re- 
straint which  only  wore  away  when  the  icy  barriers 
melted  down  on  closer  fellowship.  The  long  absence 
of  Annie  had  driven  her  uncle  back  into  the  old  impa- 
tience of  society  and  love  of  solitude,  which  even  now 
was  unwillingly  broken,  and  the  spiritual  and  ascetic  life 
which  Henry  Listen  had  been  leading  seemed  to  make 
even  such  jejune  and  harmless  felicities  foreign  to  his 
tastes.  And  Annie  had  been  so  much  accustomed  now 
to  the  daily  helping  and  tending  on  the  helpless,  and  she 
had  seen  so  much  of  the  more  easy  and  less  restrained 
habits  of  mind  of  gentlemen  of  the  world,  that  an  uneasy 
feeling  crept  down  on  her  spirits,  and  there  was  an 
incipient  yearning  for  the  fuller  felicities  of  life. 

But  all  these  little  wisps  of  cloud  vanished  as  the  Christ- 
mas night  wore  on  and  the  topics  of  human  interest  came 
up  to  be  discussed. 

"Do  you  know,  sir,"  said  Henry  Listen,  as  the  name 
"Rohira"  turned  up  in  the  conversation,  "I  think  there's 
a  crisis  approaching  in  the  affairs  of  that  house?" 


THE  SEA-SPIRIT  VANISHES  339 

"Why  do  you  think  so?"  asked  the  pastor,  but  in  a 
tone  of  little  interest. 

"  Well,  it  seems  slightly  absurd  to  say  it,  but  the  report 
has  gone  abroad  that  the  ghost  of  Dunkerrin  Castle  has 
disappeared  and  is  not  to  return." 

"How?  Have  you  banished  her  to  the  bottom  of 
the  Red  Sea  for  seven  years,  and  is  she  so  offended  that 
she  will  not  return  again?" 

"  No ! "  repHed  his  curate.  "  I  am  happy  to  say  I  have 
had  nothing  to  do  with  the  lady.  But  the  report  has 
gone  abroad  and  is  widely  believed.  The  credulous 
seem  to  take  it  for  a  sign  of  'something,'  as  they  say. 
The  more  sceptical  also  take  it  as  a  sign  of  'something/ 
—  more  concrete,  however." 

"Well,  now,  although  you  are  Irish  enough  to  love  an 
enigma,  suppose  you  explain  it.  Not  that  it  much  mat- 
ters," said  the  old  man,  passing  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head wearily,  "these  things  are  of  very  passing  interest 
now." 

"  It  is  only  the  usual  foolish  village  gossip,"  said  Henry 
Liston.  "I  think  our  friend,  Jude,  has  so  pulled  the 
ropes  that  the  spectre  will  not  be  seen  again;  and  she  has 
had  it  conveyed  to  our  good  friend,  the  doctor,  that  it 
will  forebode  the  annihilation  of  his  house." 

Annie  was  now  listening  with  all  her  ears,  although 
she  said  nothing  and  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  the 
subject  did  not  concern  her. 

"It  is  wonderful,"  continued  Henry,  speaking  to  his 
pastor,  "how  the  dear  old  doctor  clings  to  that  singular 
delusion  about  his  wife's  appearance.  I  suppose  it  is 
almost  unique,  at  least  in  the  case  of  an  educated  man." 

"I  have  seen  more  remarkable  delusions,"  broke  in 
Annie,  "  far  more  harrowing  fancies  or  visions,  and  always 
in  the  case  of  the  educated  and  intelligent.  The  ruder 
people  accept  the  stories  of  others,  but  seem  never  to 
come  under  the  spell  of  such  delusions  themselves." 

"Well,  that  is  singular,"  said  Henry.  "I  thought  the 
thing  first   impossible,   and   then,   unprecedented.     But 


340  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

the  doctor  is  now  fully  persuaded  that  the  spirit  of  his 
dead  wife  has  disappeared  forever  in  anger,  or  as  an  omen 
of  some  impending  trouble." 

"Why  in  anger?"  asked  his  pastor.  "What  could 
have  enraged  the  ghost?" 

"Oh,  the  quarrel  between  the  eldest  boy  and  his 
father,"  said  Henry  Listen,  "or  rather,  the  repeated 
quarrels,  culminating  in  his  final  disinheritance  and 
departure." 

"I  thought  he  had  gone  back  to  sea  again  and  failed 
in  his  attempt,"  said  the  old  man. 

"Yes!  He  was  away  for  a  considerable  time,  but  he 
seems  always  to  have  some  great  attraction  here.  But 
he's  gone  now  forever.  And  then,  as  I  have  mentioned, 
the  younger  lad,  Dion,  has  never  been  heard  from,  and 
Jack,  the  fair-haired  lad  (you  remember  him,  Annie,  he 
was  your  first  pupil)  is  at  home  in  a  hopeless  decline." 

"Not  quite  hopeless,"  said  Annie  O'Farrell.  "He 
was  at  our  hospital  and  the  doctors  give  hope,  if  he  can 
be  induced  to  go  abroad." 

"They  say,  that  is  the  common  report  has  it,"  added 
Henry  Listen,  "that  there  was  a  quarrel,  some  street- 
scuffle  between  students,  and  that  he  sustained  a  rupture 
in  the  lung." 

"What  was  the  exact  cause  of  quarrel  between  Dr. 
Wycherly  and  his  son?"  asked  Annie  O'Farrell  eva- 
sively. 

"The  real  cause  was  his  wild  life  and  the  report  that 
had  reached  the  doctor's  ears  from  certain  sources  that 
he  was  engaged  in  illegal  work.  There  is  no  secret  about 
the  fact  that  smuggling  to  a  large  extent  was  going  on 
along  this  coast,  and  I  don't  think  there  is  much  doubt 
now  that  Wycherly  and  Pete  the  Gypsy  were  engaged  in 
it.  A  sudden  swoop  was  made  on  the  castle  four  years 
ago  by  a  clever  officer,  but  he  was  disappointed.  They 
were  too  well  prepared.  But  the  report  came  to  the  old 
man's  ears,  and  you  know  with  these  people  a  violation 
of  the  law  is  the  worst  of  crimes.     There  were  some 


THE  SEA-SPIRIT  VANISHES  341 

angry  scenes  between  the  father  and  son;  and  young 
Wycherly  has  left  —  it  is  supposed  forever." 

"It  is  sad  to  see  a  family  broken  up  so  completely," 
said  Annie,  as  if  speaking  to  herself.  "And  there  was 
such  brilliant  promise.     Dion  has  never  been  heard  of?" 

"Never,  they  say.  Some  think  he  is  ranching  in 
America;  some  say  he  is  farming  at  the  Cape.  Many 
think  he  is  dead  —  lost  at  sea." 

"It  is  very  sad,"  said  Annie  musingly,  "to  think  of 
that  old  man,  who  has  been  so  good  and  kind,  left  desolate 
in  his  old  age;  and  perhaps  he  will  live  to  see  Rohira  in 
the  hands  of  strangers.  Isn't  it  hard  to  see  an  old  name 
passing  away?  I'm  sure  Mary  would  be  sorry  to  hear 
it." 

"Mary  has  said  good-bye  to  all  human  associations," 
said  Henry  Liston.  "She  has  forgotten  all  these  things 
long  ago." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that,"  said  Annie,  who  had  a  strong 
prejudice  against  that  kind  of  sanctity.  "  Her  last  letter 
to  me  mentioned  Rohira  and  recalled  the  few  happy 
evenings  we  spent  there." 

"Do  you  know  it  strikes  me  that  you  two  are  mighty 
solemn  for  young  people?"  said  the  pastor.  "I'm  just 
thinking  how  sober  you  have  both  become  since  that 
first  Christmas  you  both  spent  here.     What  is  it?" 

But  they  could  not  answer.  And  in  Hke  sober,  if  not 
sombre,  fashion  the  hours  crept  by  to  bed-time;  and 
Henry  had  to  get  out  his  trap  for  his  journey  homeward. 

It  was  still  early  in  the  night,  and  Annie,  kept  long 
awake  by  thinking  of  the  many  things  about  which  they 
had  been  conversing,  had  sunk  into  an  uneasy  slumber, 
when  the  very  unusual  pealing  of  the  hall-bell,  pulled 
violently  by  some  excited  person,  woke  her  up  to  perfect 
consciousness.  After  a  long  interval,  during  which  the 
jangling  of  the  bell  never  ceased,  she  heard  the  hall-door 
opened  and  a  loud  conversation  in  the  hall.  And  pres- 
ently her  uncle,  who  had  risen  from  bed  and  answered 
the  bell,  tapped  at  her  door. 


342  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Are  you  awake,  Annie?"  he  said. 

"Yes!     What's  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"A  messenger  from  Dr.  Wycherly  that  his  son  has 
had  another  violent  hemorrhage  and  requesting  you  to 
go  up.     I'd  just  as  soon  you  wouldn't  go!" 

"How  can  I  help  it,  Uncle?"  she  replied.  "I  suppose 
there's  no  other  nurse  available;  and  this  may  be  a  matter 
of  life  or  death." 

"Please  yourself!"  he  said  reluctantly.  "The  doctor's 
carriage  is  at  the  door.  I  suppose  you'll  hardly  return 
before  morning." 

"I  dare  say  not!"  she  replied. 

"  I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like  it ! "  he  murmured,  moving 
away.     "Oh,  why  did  I  ever  bring  them  here?" 


CHAPTER  XXXV 


Uncle   and   Niece 


The  New  Year  dawned,  cold  and  wet  and  chill.  The 
Christmas  snows  had  disappeared,  except  here  and  there 
in  nooks  and  clefts,  for  the  sea-air  had  come  \n  and  hov- 
ered above  the  fleecy  drifts  and  breathed  so  softly  on 
them  that  they  had  not  the  hardihood  to  remain  longer, 
but  gently  melted  away  md  relieved  the  suffocation  of 
grass  and  herb  that  had  been  pining  in  the  darkness 
beneath.  But  the  skies  were  lowering  and  heavy,  and 
haning  too  closely  with  their  weeping  burdens  on  the 
earth;  and  the  whole  landscape  and  sea  vista  was  tinted 
in  a  melancholy  grayness  of  colour,  that  made  men  sit 
down  and  think,  rather  than  stir  themselves  to  work 
within  or  without  of  doors. 

Gray  was  the  old  Dunkerrin  keep  against  the  steel 
face  of  the  sea;  gray  were  the  granite  walls  without, 
where  they  held  up  their  faces  to  be  lashed  by  wind  and 
wave,  gray  were  the  walls  within,  except  where  they 
were  blackened  with  the  smoke  that  crept  out  from  the 
gypsies'  fire  and  coiled  itself  round  and  round  the  great 
stone  chamber  and  lingered  on  the  arched  roof  and  left 
it  darkened  and  grimy  with  its  sooty  paint.  Gray,  too, 
was  the  face  of  the  wrinkled  hag  bent  over  the  peat  and 
wood  fire  upon  the  hearth  —  gray,  with  an  ashen  pallor 
as  of  a  life  that  was  consuming  itself  in  a  fierce  struggle 
of  overmastering  passion. 

The  gloomy  day  wore  on  to  evening,  and  the  deep 
shades  drew  down  at  four  o'clock,  shutting  out  all  light 
from  that  dark  chamber  except  a  few  feeble  rays  of  twi- 
light that  lingered  still  about  the  narrow  slits  that  served 

343 


344  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

for  windows.  The  dusky  brood  of  children  were  still  out 
upon  the  cliffs  playing  their  noisy  games;  the  old  woman 
gazed  musingly  but  anxiously  into  the  fire ;  Cora,  the  ugly 
gypsy  girl,  was  munching  apples  in  a  comer,  seated  on  a 
kitchen  table  and  swinging  her  legs  to  some  imaginary 
Romany  ditty. 

At  last  the  old  woman  woke  up  as  if  from  a  reverie 
and  without  turning  round  she  addressed  her  grand- 
daughter : 

"The  little  father  is  late  to-night.  Dost  thou  hear  any 
noise  of  his  coming?" 

Without  moving  or  making  a  single  sign  of  interest,  the 
girl  went  on  munching  apples,  just  pausing  a  little  to 
mumble : 

"  None.  Wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  fell  into  the  hands 
of  the  engroes  and  found  the  darbies  on  his  wrists." 

"Why  dost  thou  say  such  a  thing?"  cried  the  old 
hag  with  the  addition  of  an  oath  and  an  opprobrious 
name. 

"Because  his  pal  or  someone  else  has  peached,"  said 
the  girl,  without  moving  from  her  place  or  resenting  the 
insult. 

"His  pal?  Wycherly,  dost  thou  think?"  asked  the  old 
woman  anxiously  and  turning  round  to  face  her  hopeful 
grandchild. 

"Yes!  or  I'm  nashkado,"  said  the  girl. 

The  old  woman  turned  back,  muttering  something  and 
looking  steadily  at  the  fire. 

A  little  later  on  the  sound  of  hoofs  was  heard,  as  they 
crept  down  the  boreen  that  led  to  the  castle,  and  the 
heavy  cart  jolted  over  the  rough  stones,  or  tore  through 
the  bushes  and  brambles  that  closed  in  in  wild  profusion 
across  the  narrow  passage.  Then  the  stable  door  was 
opened,  the  animal  unharnessed  and  housed  for  the  night, 
and  Pete  came  in,  calm  and  unconcerned  as  usual. 

The  old  woman  received  him  so  effusively  that  he  ex- 
pressed his  surprise.  She  explained  the  suspicions  of  his 
hopeful  daughter. 


I 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  345 

"I  didn't  know  but  that  you  would  be  in  the  nashky 
to-night,"  she  said.     "And  we — " 

"The  engro  is  not  kidded  yet,"  said  the  little  father, 
"that  could  match  a  Romany  chal." 

And  lifting  up  the  heavy  cover  of  an  iron  pot,  he  flung 
it  w^ith  all  his  strength  at  his  daughter's  head.  She 
quietly  dodged  the  missile  and,  picking  up  a  couple  of 
apples,  she  passed  out  into  the  night  that  had  now  fallen, 
chanting  in  the  most  unconcerned  manner: 

The  Romany  chi 
And  the  Romany  chal, 

and  calling  to  the  dusky  little  savages  who  were  playing 
around  the  cliffs  to  come  back  to  their  grandbebee. 

"She  said,"  said  the  old  granddame,  shuffling  nearer 
the  fire  with  the  sense  of  satisfaction  of  one  who  has 
escaped  a  danger,  "that  the  young  master  had  peached! 
Can  that  be  true?" 

"How  could  it  be  true?"  said  the  little  father.  "I 
carried  my  cargo  to-night  through  the  midst  of  the  en- 
groes,  bade  them  Good-night!  saw  it  in  the  wagon,  safely 
consigned.     What  more?" 

"  Nothing  more,"  she  said.  "  How  is  the  young  master 
to-night?" 

"Better  and  worse!"  said  the  little  father.  "Better 
because  the  bleeding  has  stopped;  worse  because  he  is 
craving  for  a  sight  of  that  girl  and  she  cannot  always 
be  there." 

"Ha!"  cried  the  old  woman  with  a  certain  note  of 
exultation  in  her  voice.  "She  has  had  enough  of  the 
tribe,  I  wot.  And  yet,"  she  continued,  gazing  intently 
into  the  red  ashes  that  dropped  here  and  there  on  the 
hearth  from  the  blazing  logs,  "I  have  a  vision;  and 
some  day  the  dark  dove  will  nestle  beneath  the  roof  of 
Rohira." 

"Thou  art  dreaming,  little  mother,"  said  the  filial  Pete. 
"Edward  is  gone  never  to  return;  Dion  is  lost  and  never 
to  be  found;  Jack  is  a  doomed  lad.     Rohira  will  pass 


346  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

into  the  hands  of  the  stranger  and  the  very  name  of  it 
will  be  changed  and  forgotten." 

"Pete,  you  are  a  fool  and  no  better  than  a  gorgio," 
said  the  old  woman.  "  But  why  didn't  you  kill  Kerins's 
juggal?" 

"Because  no  drow  that  was  ever  brewed  could  sicken 
him,"  said  Pete.  "And  he  knows  and  suspects  me,  the 
damned  beast.     Some  day,  I  fear,  he'll  fly  at  me." 

"  It  would  be  well  if  dog  and  man  were  out  of  our  way," 
said  the  old  woman.  "  Cora,  the  slut,  who  knows  every- 
thing, says  we're  peached  upon.  It  can't  be  the  young 
master  and  yet  I  wouldn't  trust  him.  But  Kerins  —  I 
have  watched  him  and  I  have  little  faith  in  him." 

"  No  matter,"  said  Pete  airily.  Nothing  but  the  hang- 
man's noose  dangling  over  his  head  could  disturb  him. 
"We  have  only  one  or  two  journeys  more.  And  then  we 
quit.  And  grandbebee !  We,  the  tinker-gypsies,  have  not 
done  so  badly  after  all." 

"No!"  she  said.  "We  shall  be  remembered  well!  Go 
call  that  hussy  and  the  bebees  from  the  cliff.  She's  only 
fit  to  be  a  Christian!" 

And  she  spat  into  the  fire  with  disgust. 

It  was  quite  true  that  Jack  Wycherly  was  better  and 
worse.  The  violent  hemorrhage  that  had  come  on  in  the 
early  hours  of  St.  Stephen's  morning  had  been  checked  by 
powerful  remedies,  but  he  had  been  confined  to  bed  and 
was  suffering  from  great  debility.  And  he  was  feverish 
and  restless,  partly  because  he  saw  that  he  could  not  well 
resume  his  studies,  but  principally  because  he  craved  and 
hungered  after  the  presence  of  the  nurse,  whose  light 
touch  and  sympathetic  attentions  seemed  now  to  have 
become  indispensable  to  his  recovery.  She  had  remained 
by  his  bedside  all  that  dreary  night,  watching,  side  by 
side  with  the  old  doctor,  who  was  half-distracted  with 
grief  and  terror,  for  the  cessation  of  the  dangerous  symp- 
toms. It  was  only  after  breakfast  she  was  allowed  to 
return  to  her  uncle's. 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  347 

He  was  in  no  agreeable  mood.  Quite  ignorant  of  the 
modern  methods  of  medical  skill  and  science  and  still 
more  ignorant  of  the  etiquette  that  now  obtains  in  the 
profession,  he  thought  there  was  a  certain  impropriety  in 
the  summoning  of  a  young  girl  to  attend  at  night  the 
bedside  agonies  of  a  young  gentleman.  Quite  unaware 
of  hospital  practice,  he  rather  resented  the  idea  of  her 
being  summoned  to  a  private  patient;  and  he  thought 
there  was  a  certain  want  of  fitness  and  delicacy  in  the 
whole  thing  that  called  for  comment  on  his  part. 

"I  don't  know,  Annie,"  he  said  when  he  had  made 
some  ordinary  inquiries  about  the  boy's  condition,  "what 
are  your  ordinary  duties,  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you 
have  gone  as  far  in  this  matter  as  maidenly  delicacy  will 
allow." 

Annie  opened  her  eyes  in  amazement. 

"I  know  I  want  a  right  good  sleep.  Uncle,"  she  said. 
"But  what  in  the  world  has  maidenly  delicacy  to  do  in 
the  matter?     Why,  it  is  my  profession." 

"Of  course,  but  surely  there  are  distinctions  in  your 
profession.  There  are  certain  rules  or  laws,"  he  said, 
reverting  to  his  old  ideas,  "binding  all  professions,  and 
in  yours  there  must  be  distinctions.  I  mean  you  have 
no  right  to  be  called  upon  to  attend  patients  indis- 
criminately." 

"We  acknowledge  no  distinctions,"  she  replied  with 
a  certain  independence  that  grated  upon  him.  "Our 
business,  our  vocation,"  she  went  on  proudly,  "is  to  save 
human  life  and  alleviate  human  suffering.  Place,  time, 
circumstances  do  not  concern  us." 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  He  felt  he  was  in 
the  whirl  of  a  revolution  that  he  could  neither  stop,  nor 
stay.  Events  were  crowding  down  upon  him  and  his 
old  conceptions  of  inexorable  laws  and  sweeping  them 
away  into  oblivion. 

"But,"  he  said  at  length,  clinging  to  his  old  ideas  even 
while  he  felt  them  dragged  down  the  tide  of  change, 
"  there   are    certain   proprieties,   Annie  —  certain   minor 


348  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

moralities,  that  have  at  all  times  to  be  observed.  I  admit 
the  vast  progress  and  utilities  of  the  science  of  medicine, 
but  there  are  tacit  rules  —  little  scholia,  or  consequences, 
from  Christian  teaching,  that  make  it  undesirable  for  a 
young  lady  —  " 

"  You  have  never  seen  an  operation,  Uncle? "  she  said. 

"Never,  thank  God!"  he  replied. 

"  Well,  now,"  she  continued,  "  let  me  be  candid.  There 
are  certain  shocks  in  the  beginning,  certain  things  that 
make  you  shiver,  but  you  get  used  to  everything.  And 
then  you  begin  to  understand  that  in  our  profession  there 
is  only  one  thing  considered  —  that  is,  as  I  have  said, 
to  save  human  life  and  relieve  human  suffering." 

He  saw  there  was  no  use  in  prolonging  the  argument, 
so  he  said  testily: 

"I  don't  understand  and  I'm  not  going  to  argue  the 
matter  further.  But,"  —  he  stopped  suddenly,  as  if  he 
dreaded  to  go  too  far,  for  now  he  felt  how  powerless  he 
was  becoming,  how  unequal  to  the  unseen  forces  that 
seemed  to  be  conspiring  from  all  sides  against  him.  And 
yet  how  could  he  be  silent? 

"I  was  about  to  say,"  he  continued,  with  an  attempt 
at  the  old  peremptoriness  that  almost  broke  down,  "that 
I  have  to  consider  my  own  position,  Annie.  We  are 
living  here  among  a  backward,  primitive  people,  who 
do  not  understand  modern  methods;  and  after  all 
we  must  yield  to  their  prejudices.  And  I  fear  very 
much  —  " 

Here  he  stopped.  He  could  not  hurt  the  feelings  of 
the  girl  who  was  everything  to  him  in  the  world. 

"I  think  I  know  what  you  mean.  Uncle,"  she  said, 
"and  it  would  be  most  ungrateful  of  me  to  embarrass 
you  in  any  way.  But  I  think  the  time  has  come  when 
the  people  should  be  taught  to  rise  above  these  preju- 
dices, and  there  is  only  one  way  of  teaching  them  and 
that  is  to  defy  them." 

"That  cannot  be  done,"  he  said.  "There!  we've  had 
enough  of  the  matter,  and  I  don't  want,  Annie,  that 


UNCLE  AND  NIECE  349 

anything  should  come  between  us  now,  when  my  time 
on  earth  is  so  short." 

"Don't  say  that,  Uncle,"  she  said  as  the  tears  started 
to  her  eyes.  "  You  have  many  years  before  you  yet,  and, 
wl/en  I  have  done  with  these  professional  studies,  I  shall 
come  back  and  nurse  you  to  the  end." 

He  shook  his  head.  And,  after  a  pause,  during  which 
she  seemed  to  be  debating  the  prudence  of  what  she  was 
going  to  say,  she  said  quietly: 

"I  shall  not  go  to  Rohira  again!" 

But  in  the  late  afternoon  one  of  the  servants  came 
down  to  beg  of  her  to  go  up,  if  it  were  only  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"For,  oh.  Miss,"  said  the  girl  earnestly,  as  she  saw 
Annie  hesitating,  "  if  you  could  only  see  the  young  master 
and  how  he  turns  round  and  looks  every  time  the  door 
opens  and  then  turns  back  with  the  tears  in  his  eyes  and 
a  look  on  him,  as  if  his  heart  was  breaking;  an'  if  you 
could  only  hear  him.  Miss,  when  he  wakes  up  out  of  his 
sleep  and  looks  round  and  says  'Annie!'  'Annie!'  just  for 
all  the  world,  Miss,  as  if  a  child  were  crying  for  his  mother 
—  why.  Miss,  you'd  go  to  the  ind  of  the  world  to  help  him." 

"  You  know,  Nellie,  that  I  was  up  all  night  and  am 
tired  and  worn  out!" 

"Of  course,  you  are.  Miss,  though  you're  looking  as 
fresh  as  a  daisy  this  morning;  but  sure,  Miss,  this  is  only 
for  a  few  minutes.  And  the  poor  doctor.  Miss,  is  heart- 
broke  an'  he  said  to  me,  'Nellie,'  he  said,  'I'm  ashamed 
to  be  troubling  Miss  O'Farrell  after  such  a  long  night, 
but  what  am  I  to  do?  It  is  hard  to  hear  Jack  calling  for 
her  and  not  to  please  him. ' " 

Still  she  hesitated.  She  had  given  a  spontaneous 
promise,  although  it  was  exacted  by  affection,  and  she  was 
torn  by  a  conflict  of  feeling  such  as  she  had  never  expe- 
rienced before.  Suddenly  she  turned  around  and  went 
straight  to  her  uncle's  door. 

"The  doctor  has  again  sent  for  me,"  she  said,  "and 
this  poor  boy  is  calling  piteously  for  me.     I  must  go!" 


350  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"You  can  please  yourself!"  he  said. 

So  she  went  that  day  and  every  day  until  Jack 
Wycherly  was  convalescent.  And  her  uncle  never  alluded 
to  it  again,  but  she  knew  that  a  great  gulf  had  yawned 
between  them.  And  she  was  very  soon  made  aware  that 
busy  tongues  were  tampering  with  her  name  in  the  parish; 
and  that  her  ministrations  of  mercy  were  tortured  into 
deep  designs  of  ambition,  or  at  least  flagrant  violations 
of  that  secret  code  which  draws  the  invisible  but  impass- 
able line  between  delicacy  and  forwardness  or,  as  her 
uncle  would  say,  the  things  that  are  within  the  law  and 
the  things  that  pass  to  their  own  retribution  outside  its 
impregnable  pale. 


I 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

Cora   Bewitched 

Nowhere  did  these  thoughts  rankle  more  deeply,  no- 
where were  these  things  discussed  so  savagely,  as  in  the 
cabin  of  the  Duggans.  Every  event  seemed  to  be  leading 
up  to  an  accumulation  of  disappointment  that  was  hardly 
to  be  borne  by  such  fierce  and  vindictive  spirits;  and  these 
disappointments  in  some  mysterious  manner  appeared  to 
originate  in  the  voluntary  or  unconscious  movements  of 
the  priests.  Things  seemed  to  have  reached  a  culmina- 
tion of  agony  when  all  preparations  were  made  for  the 
marriage  of  Kerins  to  Martha  Sullivan,  and  when  under 
the  veiy  eyes  of  the  Duggans  vans  of  furniture  were 
brought  from  the  railway  station  to  embellish  the  home 
of  the  bride.  It  was  hard  enough  to  lose  Crossfields  just 
at  the  time  when  Kerins's  intemperance  seemed  to  make 
certain  his  ruin  and  their  acquisition  of  the  farm;  and 
now  he  had  actually  swept  from  the  side  of  Dick  Duggan 
the  fairest  girl  in  the  parish,  whom  he  had  already  re- 
garded as  his  own.  His  grief  and  disappointment  were 
so  terrible  that  even  the  old  woman,  his  mother,  was 
won  over  to  his  side;  and,  although  her  deep  religious 
feelings  would  never  allow  her  to  take  part  in  any  unholy 
remarks  about  the  priests,  she  still  felt,  in  that  strange 
instinctive  but  utterly  irrational  manner  so  common 
amongst  the  ignorant  and  uneducated,  that  they  all  had 
a  grievance  against  their  clergy.  Hence  the  matter 
was  warmly  and  angrily  discussed  about  their  hearth 
these  dark,  winter  days,  whilst  a  few  fields  away  Jack 
Wycherly's  life  seemed  ebbing  softly  onward  towards 
the  unmeasured  shores  of  eternity. 

351 


352  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Fitter  for  him  keep  that  galivanter  of  a  niece  of  his 
at  home,"  said  the  old  man  one  night,  as  they  were  talk- 
ing about  some  altar  denunciation  of  a  scandal  made 
the  Sunday  previous  by  the  old  blind  pastor.  "  Begor, 
because  she's  his  niece  she  can  do  what  no  other  girl  in 
the  parish  dare  do.  What's  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce 
for  the  gander,  and  begor  whin  he  won't  spare  anyone 
else  he  oughtn't  spare  her." 

"If  it  was  a  poor  man's  son  or  daughter  was  spittin' 
blood,  I  wondher  would  me  fine  lady  be  so  ready  to  spind 
her  nights  and  days  be  their  side?"  said  his  daughter. 

"Faix,  you  may  be  sure  she  wouldn't,  nor  would  he 
allow  her  unless  she  was  well  paid  for  it,"  echoed  one  of 
the  boys. 

"  Perhaps  she  has  her  eye  on  the  place, "  said  the  old 
man  with  a  certain  irony.  "Quarer  things  happen  and 
sure  we  ought  to  be  glad  to  see  them  Prodestans  hunted 
from  the  counthry  and  Catholics  takin'  their  place." 

"  What  are  you  sayin'  about  Prodestans  and  Catholics?" 
said  Dick  Duggan  savagely,  as  he  turned  in  from  the  door, 
and  his  dark  face  grew  more  sallow  and  the  stubby  black 
moustache  on  his  upper  lip  seemed  to  bristle  with  anger. 

"Nothin',  nothin',"  said  his  father,  "Only  people  do 
be  saying  that  quarer  things  have  happened  than  that 
she  should  be  at  Rohira." 

"What  'ud  take  her  there?"  said  Dick.  "Didn't  she 
give  the  go-by  to  Masther  Ned  and  sure  this  poor  dying 
angashore  will  never  come  in  for  Rohira." 

"Maybe  she's  lookin'  afther  the  ould  docthor  himself," 
said  his  sister.  "Sure  the  wife's  sperrit  has  gone  away, 
banished  by  the  priest  to  the  bottom  of  the  Red  Say  for 
as  long  as  he  wants  to  hould  her  there." 

There  was  a  burst  of  sarcastic  laughter  at  this  sally, 
which  was  interrupted  when  the  latch  of  the  half-door 
was  unceremoniously  lifted  and  Pete  the  Gypsy  came  in. 

He  never  used  the  usual  salutations  of  the  country  and 
his  presence  never  boded  any  good  to  the  household,  but 
he  was  always  welcome  because  he  had  all  the  news  of 


CORA  BEWITCHED  353 

the  country  on  his  tongue  and  had  a  dry  quaint  way  of 
communicating  it. 

He  went  over  coolly  to  the  turf  fire  and  lighted  his  pipe, 
mfcrely  saying: 

"Your  par'n,  Ma'am!" 

Then  he  sat  on  the  hob  and  smoked  calmly.  After  a 
little  while  the  old  man  said: 

"We  were  just  talking  of  the  young  master  whin  you 
kem  in,  Pete.     How  is  he?  " 

"Better  because  worse!"  said  the  gypsy  sententiously. 

"Begor,  'twould  take  your  mother  to  bate  that,"  said 
the  old  woman,  who  hated  the  whole  tribe. 

"I  mean,"  said  Pete,  "that  the  bleeding  is  stopped, 
thanks  to  his  skilful  nurse,  but  the  boy  is  doomed.  He 
cannot  get  better.     He  must  go  abroad." 

"  I  hope  he'll  take  a  wife  wid  him,"  said  Dick  Duggan 
savagely. 

"  No ! "  said  the  gypsy  coolly  after  a  pause.  "  Although 
he  ought;  or  rather  she  ought  to  take  him,  for  it  was  for 
her  sake  he  got  his  death-blow!" 

This  was  interesting,  so  the  whole  family  began  to 
group  themselves  around  the  speaker,  except  Dick  Duggan, 
who  kept  apart  as  if  the  subject  did  not  interest  him,  but 
who  nevertheless  kept  eyes  and  ears  open  for  the  narrative. 

But  Pete  was  rather  leisurely  in  his  movements,  at 
least  in  his  hours  of  recreation,  and  only  asked  curiously : 

"Have  ye  not  heard  it?" 

"Dom  your  blood,"  said  the  old  man  in  a  passion, 
"you  know  dom  well  we  didn't.  You  and  thim  can 
keep  yere  sacrets  too  well,  although  sometimes  the  best 
mended  pot  will  lake." 

The  allusion  to  his  ordinary  trade  as  a  tinker  and  his 
extraordinary  calling  as  a  smuggler  would  have  raised 
the  hair  on  an  ordinary  man.  But  Pete  was  not  an 
ordinary  man,  but  an  extraordinary  gypsy,  and  he  held 
down  his  temper  with  a  strong  hand. 

"True,  friend,"  he  said  at  length  and  it  seemed  with 
some  significance,  "it  is  well  to  be  able  to  keep  one's 
24 


354  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

secrets.  The  spoken  word  cannot  be  recalled.  But,"  he 
added,  dashing  the  ashes  from  his  pipe,  "this  doesn't 
concern  me  and  so  ye  may  have  it.  It  is  only  this.  That 
Ned  pursued  this  young  lady,  and  a  very  beautiful  lady 
she  is,  with  his  attentions;  that  she  rejected  them;  that 
he  followed  her  to  the  city  and  wanted  Master  Jack  to 
tell  him  where  he  could  meet  her.  Master  Jack  refused. 
There  were  hot  words;  and  hot  words  generally  end  only 
in  one  way,  eh,  Dick?  and  Master  Jack  got  the  blow  that 
has  sped  him  on  the  way  to  the  grave." 

"And  Masther  Ned?" 

"  Has  vanished  and  is  not  likely  to  return  again." 

"He's  not  much  of  a  loss,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  No-o!"  said  the  gypsy.  "  He  was  a  good  young  man, 
a  very  good  young  man ;  and  he  had  money,  a  little  money, 
just  enough  to  buy  and  stock  Crossfields." 

"  Crossfields?  What  the  divil  do  you  mane?  "  said  Dick 
Duggan,  coming  over  and  eyeing  the  dark  face  of  the  gypsy. 

" Mean?"  said  Pete  coolly.  " I  mean  that  Masther  Ned 
■ —  don't  be  so  angry,  Dick,  you'll  have  Crossfields  yet  — 
I  foretell  it!  —  wanted  Kerins  to  sell  out  to  him.  He 
offered  him  six  hundred,  and  —  Kerins  would  sell,  but 
then—" 

He  paused  and  left  them  eagerly  expectant. 

"  But  then  the  young  lady  wouldn't  have  him  and  he 
flung  up  Crossfields,  Rohira,  and  everything.  You'll 
never  hear  of  him  again!" 

"Small  loss!"  said  the  old  woman. 

"And  a  good  riddance!"  said  her  husband. 

"Certainly  in  one  way,"  said  the  gypsy,  as  if  inter- 
preting their  thoughts,  "for  if,  as  might  have  happened, 
Wycherly  had  secured  Crossfields  no  power  on  earth 
could  wrest  it  from  him.  When  men  of  his  class  get 
hold  of  such  things  they  hold  on  like  bull-dogs.  Now 
Kerins  is  different.  He  has  only  the  grip  of  a  child  or  a 
spaniel.  Say,  Drop  it !  and  he  lets  go.  Say,  Pass  by  that 
girl  an'  don't  let  me  catch  you  speaking  to  her  again  I 
And  'tis  done. " 


CORA  BEWITCHED  355 

"That's  not  the  character  he  bears,"  said  the  old  man. 
"People  say  he's  a  black  man  and  he  knows  how  to  use 
his  revolver." 

Pete  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  rose  up  to  depart. 

"That's  because  he's  never  met  his  match  —  I  mean, 
the  man  that  would  stand  up  to  him  and  give  him  one 
bad  fright.  If  Ned  Wycherly  had  been  more  lucky,  he 
could  as  easy  get  Kerins  to  clear  out  of  Crossfields  as  I 
could  smoke  a  pipe.  'Tis  a  pity  we  haven't  a  gentleman 
there  instead  of  a  skunk.  And  now  I  hear  he's  bringing 
in  the  bonniest  lass  in  the  parish." 

There  was  silence  at  these  words.  He  had  wrought 
their  tempers  up  to  that  point  where  speech  is  useless. 

"Well,  good  night!"  he  said.  "There's  enough  of  us 
to  dance  at  the  wedding." 

He  received  no  reply  to  the  salutation,  but  went  out 
heedlessly  into  the  darkness.  He  knew  well  he  was  fol- 
lowed. The  drawn  face,  and  the  gleaming  eyes,  and  the 
dry  lips  of  Dick  Duggan  had  not  escaped  his  observation, 
for  unto  that  were  all  his  cunning  remarks  directed. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  heard  his  name  called 
huskily  and  cautiously.     He  turned  round  and  waited. 

"Did  ye  mane  all  that  ye  said,  Pete,  about  the  Yank?" 
came  the  voice  out  of  the  darkness. 

"Who's  this?     Oh,  Dick!     Did  I  mean  what?" 

"All  you  said  about  Kerins,  damn  you.  You  know 
well  what  I  mane." 

"Oh,  never  mind,"  said  the  gypsy  carelessly.  "The 
thing  is  settled  now.     It  is  too  late  to  begin." 

"  Av  I  thought  —  "  said  Dick  gloomily.  But  he  stopped, 
unable  to  frame  his  ideas  into  words. 

"If  you  thought  what?"  said  Pete  encouragingly. 

"Av  I  thought  that  Martha  would  have  him,  I'd  think 
no  more  of  blowing  out  his  brains  than  I  would  of  shooting 
a  dog." 

"  That's  foolish  talk,  Dick,"  said  the  gypsy.  "  First  and 
foremost,  you  have  no  firearms.  Kerins  saw  after  that 
when  he  sent  the  police  to  search.     Second,  you  would 


356  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

never  have  the  courage  to  pull  the  trigger.  Third,  there's 
the  hangman's  noose  and  'tis  a  necktie  one  doesn't  care  to 
wear  again.  Be  said  and  led  by  me,  Dick  Duggan.  Leave 
Kerins  alone.  And,  as  for  that  girl  (I  saw  him  walking 
with  her  yesterday  down  in  the  fields  near  her  father's 
house) ,  well,  there's  many  another  in  the  parish;  and  where 
are  you  going  to  bring  her?  Do  you  think  she's  going 
to  wait  for  you  until  she  is  a  gray  old  woman?" 

"  Pete ! "  said  the  dry  tongue  anxiously. 

"  Well.     I  must  be  off.     The  old  woman  will  be  sulky." 

"  They  do  be  sayin ', "  said  the  dry  voice  in  the  darkness, 
"  that  ye  are  all  clearin'  out  soon  —  out  av  the  ould  castle. 
Couldn't  —  couldn't  the  ould  woman  give  the  girl  some- 
thin'  —  somethin'  —  ?" 

"  You  mean  to  drab  her?  "  said  the  gypsy. 

"Drab?  What's  'drab'?"  said -Dick. 

"Why  to  'drab'  is  to  poison  her.  Why,  of  course,  the 
old  woman  knows  all  herbs  —  " 

"I  didn't  mane  that,  you  gypsy  blagard,"  said  Dick. 
"An'  you  know  I  didn't  mane  it." 

"  What  then  did  you  mean?"  said  Pete.  We're  a  law- 
less lot  enough,  I  suppose,  so  far  as  filching  a  chicken  is 
concerned,  but  we  have  kept  our  hands  from  blood. 
That's  only  for  Christians  and  gorgios." 

"Begor,  perhaps  you're  right,"  said  Dick,  afraid  now 
that  he  had  gone  too  far,  "although  that  isn't  the  char- 
ackter  ye  bare.  But  sure  I  was  only  jokin'.  I  don't 
care  a  thraneen  for  Crossfields;  and,  as  for  the  girl,  why, 
there's  as  good  fish  in  the  say  as  ever  was  caught.  An' 
I'm  dom  glad  it  is  wan  of  ourselves  and  not  a  shoneen 
like  Wycherly  that  houlds  the  ould  place." 

"Exactly,"  said  Pete,  moving  away.  "It  only  re- 
mains now  that  Kerins  should  have  you  as  best  man. 
I'll  be  speaking  to  him  to-morrow  or  after  and  I'll  tell 
him  how  nice  and  friendly  ye  all  are  since  ye  heard  of 
his  marriage." 

The  reply  was  lost  in  the  darkness  of  the  night  and  the 
distance,  but  if  Pete  could  smile,  and  he  never  did,  he 


CORA  BEWITCHED  357 

would  smile  at  the  sudden  change  in  Dick's  manner.  He 
only  tried  to  remember  every  word  of  their  conversation 
as  he  went  along,  and  he  commanded  his  daughter  to 
take  down  certain  things  on  very  dirty  paper,  as  mnemon- 
ics for  future  use. 

"You  have  been  riling  that  boy  again,"  said  the  old 
woman,  as  she  leaned  over  the  fire. 

"No!"  said  Pete.  "But  on  my  honour,  as  an  honest 
Romany  chal,  I  say  'tis  a  shame  that  this  juggal  should 
win  land  and  bride  so  easy." 

"What  is  it  to  us,  little  father?"  said  his  mother. 
"What  is  it  to  us?  It  behooves  us  to  think  where  we 
shall  pitch  our  tent  next,  for  I  tell  you,  these  black  walls 
choke  me  and  I  pine  for  the  wood  and  the  heath  and  the 
freedom  of  the  Romany  life.  But,  where  shall  we  pitch 
our  tent,  that  is  the  question  for  us,  and  not  whether 
Dick  will  cut  Kerins's  throat  or  poison  his  wife  that  shall 
be?" 

"  You  are  right,  bebee,"  said  Pete  admiringly,  "you  arc 
always  right.  But  may  not  these  things,  too,  help  the 
Romanys  onward?" 

"How?  What  to  us  are  the  squabbles  of  these  folk? 
We  shall  be  far  from  here  before  these  things  are  settled." 

"You  are  always  wise,  bebee,"  said  her  son.  "Could 
we  only  get  our  legs  loose  from  the  mantrap  now,  and 
enough  to  take  us  onward  to  the  Romany  camp  and  out 
into  the  fields  and  mountains  again,  all  would  be  well." 

"Then,  why  not,  httle  father?"  asked  the  old  woman 
querulously. 

"  Because  the  little  father  is  more  likely  to  find  himself 
in  the  nashky,"  broke  in  the  daughter,  Cora.  "I  tell 
ye,  but  ye  will  not  heed,  that  the  engroes  are  on  the 
prowl,  and  they  are  only  waiting  to  get  the  leg  as  well  as 
the  foot  into  the  mantrap,  before  they  snap  the  spring." 

The  old  woman  snarled  and  cursed  the  girl,  who  seemed 
to  find  a  certain  delight  in  foretelling  the  ruin  of  her  father. 
But  the  girl  was  heedless.  It  didn't  seem  to  matter 
much  to  her. 


358  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Whence  have  you  got  your  information?"  asked  her 
father  sternly. 

"  Pay  me  and  I'll  tell  you ! "  she  said. 

The  payment  was  the  swish  of  his  whip  across  the  girl's 
back.     She  swore  and  went  out. 

"The  devil  has  some  information,"  said  the  g>T)sy  to 
his  mother.  "But,  if  I  can  run  in  two  or  three  bales 
more,  I'll  say  quit.  It's  an  exciting  but  uncanny  trade. 
Ah,  if  that  coward,  Wycherly,  had  stood  by  me,  what  a 
fortune  we'd  have  made.  I  owe  a  grudge  to  that  girl 
for  refusing  him  and  to  Kerins  for  keeping  Crossfields." 

"The  clouds  sank  red  to-night,  little  father,"  she  said, 
"  and  the  planet  was  a  blotch  of  blood  in  the  sky.  I  see 
strange  figures  moving  down  there  in  the  valleys,  where 
the  logs  are  burning.  There  are  two  coming  up  towards 
each  other  out  of  the  valley.  And,  look,  the  light  has 
died  out  now  and  there  is  darkness,  but  still  I  see  them 
moving  slowly,  as  if  driven  on  by  fate.  'Sh!  They 
approach.  They  meet.  Look !  One  creeping  spark  is  ex- 
tinguished.    The  other  moves  on,  on,  on.    Who  are  they?  " 

The  girl,  Cora,  had  come  back  and  seemed  to  be  listen- 
ing intently. 

"Duggan  and  Kerins,  I  suppose,"  he  said  carelessly, 
"or  Jack  Wycherly  and  his  nurse;  or  the  old  grandbee 
and  the  bride  that  is  to  be.  Did  I  tell  you  that  Dick 
wanted  you  to  brew  a  love  philtre  for  the  girl?  Yes! 
Poor  devil!  'Can  Jude,'  he  said,  'brew  something  for 
me?'  These  were  his  words,  'Can  Jude  brew  something 
for  me?'" 

"She  can  and  she  shall!"  cried  the  girl,  as  if  she  were 
suddenly  bewitched  and  gone  mad.  "I'll  brew  the 
philtre,  yea,  even  I. 

The  Romany  chi 
And  the  Romany  chal 
Shall  jaw  tasaulor 
To  drab  the  bawlor, 
And  dook  the  gry, 
Of  the  farming,  rve." 


CORA  BEWITCHED  359 

She  went  out  singing  and  yelling  into  the  night-air. 

"The  devil  has  got  that  girl,"  Pete  said  to  his  mother, 
"there's  something  strange  the  matter  with  her." 

But  the  old  woman  hung  silent  above  the  fire,  only 
muttering : 

"The  time  is  come!     Let  us  go!     Let  us  go!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

A   Dread    Ordeal 

During  these  sad  days  in  the  opening  of  the  New 
Year,  Annie  O'Farrell  was  torn  asunder  under  the  agony 
of  conflicting  feelings.  She  had  not  openly  disobeyed 
her  uncle,  to  whom  she  was  so  much  indebted,  but  she 
knew  that  he  strongly  disapproved  of  her  visiting  Rohira, 
and  that  there  was  a  strain  in  their  relations  towards 
each  other  that  might  possibly  widen  into  an  open  breach. 
She  went  every  day  to  see  the  lad,  who  was  clearly  under 
sentence  of  death  from  the  dread  malady,  and  every  day, 
as  she  pulled  on  her  gloves  and  left  her  home,  she  felt 
she  was  giving  great  pain  to  her  benefactor.  Yet,  she 
argued,  how  can  I  do  otherwise?  I  have  adopted  a  pro- 
fession, which  demands  a  sacrifice  of  feelings  where  the 
interests  of  suffering  humanity  are  at  stake.  Would  it 
not  be  selfish,  nay  cruel,  to  refuse  the  little  help  and 
sympathy  I  can  render?  She  made  up  her  mind  on  the 
matter,  and  if  she  ever  hesitated,  that  piteous  look  of  the 
stricken  lad  and  his  piteous  cry  "Annie!"  would  instantly 
strengthen  her  resolve  to  do  everything  in  her  power  to 
relieve  him.  The  gratitude  of  the  old  doctor,  too,  quaint 
and  strange  in  his  manner,  but  always  a  gentleman,  was 
very  touching.  He  said  little,  but  by  every  sign  and  gesture 
he  made  it  clear  that  he  appreciated  deeply  the  solici- 
tude with  which  this  young  and  accomplished  nurse 
watched  over  her  patient.  He  could  not  help  noticing, 
too,  how  completely  differences  of  religion  were  kept  out 
of  sight.  There  was  but  one  guiding  principle  —  kind- 
ness, humanity,  charity.  One  day  when  Annie  was  com- 
ing into  the  room  unexpectedly,  she  heard  the  old  man 
saying : 

360 


A  DREAD  ORDEAL  361 

"Oh,  that  God  had  given  me  such  a  daughter  in  ray 
old  age!" 

She  drew  back  the  door  gently  and  retired.  But  it 
was  enough  to  prove  how  deep,  if  unspoken,  was  the 
grateful  appreciation  of  her  services  in  that  Protestant 
household.  And  yet  it  was  only  her  strong  spirit  that 
helped  her  to  persevere  in  face  of  the  tacit  opposition 
of  her  uncle,  and  the  knowledge,  conveyed  to  her  in  a 
hundred  ways,  that  "  the  people  were  talking  about  her." 

As  the  days  lengthened.  Jack  Wycherly  was  able  to 
release  his  nurse  and  even  to  resume  in  part  his  studies 
at  the  hospital.  But  the  cold  of  January,  the  icy  showers 
of  sleet,  and  the  biting  of  the  air  at  night  made  it  soon 
evident  that,  if  he  were  to  escape  death,  he  would  have 
to  run  for  his  life.  The  senior  surgeon,  who  was  so  deeply 
interested  in  him,  peremptorily  ordered  him  abroad,  and 
after  a  consultation  with  the  other  members  of  the  staff, 
all  of  whom  liked  the  boy,  it  was  decided  that  South  Africa, 
with  its  dry,  warm  climate,  was  the  one  place  on  earth 
that  gave  hopes  of  arresting  the  ravages  of  the  dread 
disease. 

He  promptly  decided  to  go,  but  dare  he  go  alone?  He 
thought  not.  He  was  too  weak,  too  depressed  by  his 
illness  to  face  the  ordeal  of  an  ocean  voyage.  And  then 
—  suppose  that  this  terrible  hemorrhage  should  recur 
whilst  at  sea?  He  decided  he  would  not  go  unless  some- 
one accompanied  him.  Needless  to  say  —  that  someone 
was  Annie. 

It  was  pitiful  during  these  days  of  doubt  to  see  how 
the  poor  boy  would  follow  with  his  eyes  the  figure  of 
the  girl,  who  now  seemed  indispensable  to  him,  as  she 
flitted  through  the  wards,  apparently  unconscious  of  his 
anxiety;  but  in  reality  full  of  doubt  and  terror  at  the 
thought  that  he  might  ask  her  to  accompany  him  abroad 
and  that  she  would  not  refuse  him.  To  his  eager  ques- 
tion to  the  senior  surgeon,  whether  he  might  travel  alone, 
the  decided  answer  was  given,  "  Most  certainly  not!  You 
dare  not  travel  without  a  skilled  nurse."     And  he  had 


362  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

not  concealed  it.  Two  things  then  were  clear.  Jack 
Wycherly  was  to  leave  Ireland  for  the  Cape  on  the  first 
of  February ;  and  one  of  the  hospital  nurses  was  to  accom- 
pany him.  Many  of  the  latter  were  eager  to  go.  The 
novelty  of  the  thing,  the  desire  to  see  life,  the  pleasures 
of  ocean  travel,  the  wish  to  improve  themselves,  and  to 
obtain  larger  knowledge  of  their  profession,  were  excel- 
lent reasons  for  wishing  to  go  abroad;  and  yet  it  was 
mutely  understood  that  the  dying  boy  cared  but  for  one 
to  be  his  nurse,  companion,  and  friend.  Yet  he  hesi- 
tated about  asking  her  and  the  day  of  his  departure  was 
drawing  near. 

One  afternoon  the  senior  surgeon  bluntly  asked  him: 

"Well,  Wycherly,  have  you  made  all  arrangements? 
The  sooner  you  get  away  from  this  infernal  climate  the 
better." 

It  was  a  bitterly  cold  afternoon,  showers  of  sleet  beat- 
ing against  the  windows  and  a  fierce  wind  howling  along 
the  streets  and  sweeping  them  free  of  pedestrians. 

"  Nearly  all,  sir,"  said  Jack.  "  But  I  fear  I  caimot 
manage  about  the  nurse." 

"Why?"  said  the  doctor  impatiently.  "Expense,  is 
it?" 

"No!"  said  the  boy,  with  a  blush  spreading  over  his 
pale,  hectic  face.  "  Father  has  actually  secured  cabins  in 
the  '  Castle '  Line.     But  —  " 

Here  he  stopped  and  the  blush  grew  deeper  on  his  face. 

"Well?"  said  the  surgeon.  "What  else?  Can't  you 
get  the  lady?     I'd  imagine  they'd  jump  at  the  offer." 

"I  am  afraid  I  cannot  get  the  nurse  I  need  most,"  said 
the  boy. 

"Who  is  she?" 

"Miss  O'Farrell.  She  took  charge  of  me  the  night  of 
my  first  hemorrhage  and  I  have  known  her  at  home  —  " 

"That's  quite  right,"  said  the  surgeon.  "In  your  con- 
dition you  will  need  sympathy  and  the  feeling  of  confi- 
dence even  more  than  skilful  nursing.  But  why  has 
Miss  O'Farrell  refused?    That  was  selfish  of  her." 


A  DREAD  0RDE.1L  363 

("I  haven't  asked  her,"  said  the  boy. 

"And  why  not?  The  time  is  closing  in;  she'll  be  de- 
lighted to  go.  You  don't  expect  she  is  going  to  proffer 
ner  services?" 

"It  is  not  that,  sir!"  said  the  boy.  "But  I'm  afraid 
she  won't  go  and  I  don't  like  to  risk  a  refusal.  Besides, 
if  Miss  O'Farrell  won't  come  with  me,  I  shall  stay  at 
home  to  die." 

"But  —  but,"  said  the  bewildered  man  of  science. 
"I  cannot  understand.  Why  should  Miss  O'Farrell 
refuse  to  go?     You  say  she's  an  old  friend!" 

"  I'm  sure  she'd  like  to  go,"  was  the  answer.  "  But 
Miss  O'Farrell  is  a  Roman  Catholic,  and  you  know  they're 
very  particular,  very  fastidious  about  the  proprieties 
and  all  that." 

"Oh,    d d   nonsense!"    said    the    irascible    doctor. 

"There's  no  question  of  propriety  or  fastidiousness  with 
us.     We  have  to  save  human  life  —  that's  all ! " 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Jack,  mournfully  shaking  his  head. 
"  And  then  her  uncle,  her  guardian,  is  a  parish  priest  — 
a  great  scholar  and  theologian  and  all  that!  But  a 
terrible  stickler  for  law  and  the  right  thing  and  so  on  — 
a  kind  of  Catholic  Puritan,  you  know." 

"Of  course,  I  see.  But  is  Miss  O'Farrell  dependent 
on  him?" 

"Partly.  But  she's  deeply  attached  to  him.  And,  if 
she  comes  with  me,  it  means  war.  He'll  never  see  her 
again.     At  least,  I  think  that's  what  is  in  her  mind." 

"Well!  well,"  said  the  surgeon.  "The  thing  looks 
blue.  But  I'd  advise  you,  Wycherly,  to  face  the  matter 
at  once.  Ask  Miss  O'Farrell,  and  if  she  doesn't  consent, 
then  ask  someone  else.  But  clear  away  from  this  in- 
fernal climate  as  soon  as  you  can!     Ugh!" 

And  the  great  man  shuddered,  as  an  icy  blast  threw 
pellets  of  snow  against  the  windows,  and  the  little  streams, 
melting,  flowed  down  and  washed  them  clean.  Probably 
this  poor,  doomed  lad  never  underwent  such  an  ordeal 
in  his  life  as  the  one  he  faced  that  evening,  when  the 


364  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

doctors  had  departed  and  he  felt  that  he  had  to  settle 
the  matter  finally,  or  decide  to  remain  and  die  at  home. 
In  that  silent,  thoughtful,  melancholy  way  in  which  such 
stricken  souls  move  through  the  narrowing  paths  of  life, 
he  crept  through  the  corridors,  hoping  to  meet  the  girl 
on  whose  word  his  happiness  now  depended.  He  knew 
well  he  was  no  longer  a  prepossessing  figure.  All  his 
masculine  energy,  which  had  created  his  masculine 
beauty,  had  ebbed  away  and  left  him  a  wilted  and  washed 
out  skeleton.  The  great  brown  masses  of  auburn  hair, 
which  had  clustered  and  curled  so  proudly  on  his  broad, 
white  forehead,  were  now  matted  heaps  that  fell  down 
but  could  not  conceal  the  deep  valleys  in  his  temples. 
His  cheeks  had  fallen  in,  leaving  the  cheek-bones  high 
and  prominent.  His  lips  were  blue  and  dry.  His  hands 
were  worn  and  lengthened;  and  his  frame,  shrunken  and 
emaciated,  seemed  but  a  skeleton  on  which  his  garments 
were  hung.  He  coughed  slightly,  always  with  the  dread 
accompaniment  of  his  handkerchief  to  his  lips.  He  felt 
lonely,  miserable,  unhappy,  dreading,  yet  seeking  this 
interview  with  the  one  being,  who  alone  could  shed  upon 
his  desolate  path  a  little  ray  of  hope  and  love. 

He  walked  up  and  down  the  long  corridor  of  the  hos- 
pital under  the  gas-jets,  watching  and  listening  for  the 
opening  of  every  door,  in  the  hope  that  the  one  face  and 
figure  he  desired  to  see  might  appear.  Now  and  again, 
at  the  sound  of  a  bell,  a  nurse  would  appear,  glide  swiftly 
along  the  corridor,  exchange  a  kind  word  with  the  stricken 
student,  and  pass  on.  But  to  all  appearances  Annie 
O'Farrell  had  vanished.  Then  he  began  to  ask  himself, 
could  he  be  mistaken,  and  was  she  on  night  duty.  But 
he  knew  this  was  not  the  case.  At  last  he  was  about  to 
leave  for  his  lodgings,  when,  on  turning  around,  he  came 
face  to  face  with  the  girl. 

She  said  a  little  word  of  kindness,  walked  slowly  by 
his  side  a  little  distance,  and  was  then  about  to  pass 
into  another  ward,  when  he  arrested  her  with  the  one 
word : 


A  DREAD  ORDEAL  365 

'"Annie!" 

She  stood  still,  re-arranging  some  utensils  she  held  in 
her  hands,  until  he  said: 

"Would  you  spare  me  one  moment  and  walk  a  few 
steps  with  me?" 

She  at  once  turned  around  and  slowly  accompanied 
the  weak  footsteps  of  the  boy.  He  moistened  his  dry 
lips  and  said  with  a  tremor  in  his  voice  : 

"Annie,  you  know  I'm  ordered  abroad?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  looking  straight  before  her,  not 
daring  to  look  at  the  white  face  that  was  now  drawn 
down  with  the  pain  of  great  anxiety. 

"  Would  it  be  too  much  to  expect  —  that  is,  would 
you  do  me  and  father  the  favour  —  Annie,  will  you  go 
with  me?" 

She  started  violently,  although  she  expected  the  ques- 
tion, and  then  she  said  quietly: 

"Impossible,  Jack.  I  would  do  anything  to  help  you, 
but  that  is  impossible." 

"I  expected  to  hear  you  say  so,"  he  replied  gently  but 
sadly.  "  It  was  too  much  to  hope  for.  I  know  all  the 
difficulties  and  I  admit  they  are  insurmountable.  But 
it  was  my  last  hope.     I  shall  die  at  home  now." 

"Don't  say  that!"  she  cried,  alarmed.  "The  doctors 
give  you  a  chance  for  life  by  ordering  you  abroad.  I 
know  you  need  a  nurse  —  a  trained  nurse,  but  any  of 
the  nurses  —  Miss  Fortescue,  Miss  Langton,  Miss  O'Reilly 
—  any  of  them  will  be  delighted  to  be  asked." 

"Perhaps  so!"  he  replied.  "But  I  shall  not  go  unless 
you  come  with  me!" 

"Now,  that's  foolish  nonsense,  Jack,"  she  said  almost 
impatiently.  "  I  know  it  is  the  result  of  your  weak  con- 
dition. The  moment  you  are  on  board  the  steamer  all 
that  will  vanish  and  you  know  you  can  rely  on  any  of 
the  nurses  here." 

"Of  course,"  he  said.  "But  my  mind  is  made  up. 
You  won't  come?" 

He  coughed  slightly,  took  out  his  handkerchief,  drew 


366  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

it  across  his  lips,  and  looked  anxiously  at  it.  The  little 
action  touched  her  and  she  had  to  look  away  to  hide 
her  tears. 

"  You  know  my  difficulties,  Jack,"  she  said,  secretly 
wiping  her  eyes.  "  It  is  cruel  —  no,  I  don't  mean  that 
—  but  it  is  unfair  to  press  me.  You  know  how  my  uncle, 
old  and  blind,  will  feel;  and  then  you  know  how  those 
wretched  people  down  there  will  talk.     It  will  kill  him!" 

"I  know  right  well  I'm  selfish,"  he  replied,  "brutally 
selfish,  but  I  suppose  it  is  my  malady.  But  I  have  the 
most  positive  assurances,  Annie,  from  Doctor  Stanihurst, 
and  you  know  he  is  at  the  head  of  his  profession,  that  in 
the  public  mind  there  is  absolutely  nothing  indelicate, 
or  imprudent,  in  any  skilled  nurse  accompanying  a  poor 
devil  that  has  been  sentenced  to  death." 

"Of  course,  that's  true,"  said  the  nurse,  "in  the  pro- 
fession and  amongst  educated  people.  But  you  see, 
Jack  —  you  know  the  class  of  people  my  uncle  has  to 
deal  with  and  how  their  malice  will  twist  and  turn  the 
thing  to  account  against  him." 

"But,"  he  said  more  cheerfully,  for  he  felt  he  was 
gaining  ground,  "all  wise  people  ignore  the  prejudices 
of  the  lower  classes.  Otherwise,  the  world  could  not 
go  on.  Surely  we  should  not  be  influenced  by  the 
prejudices  of  the  ignorant." 

"I  suppose  we  ought  not  to  be,"  she  replied.  "But 
my  uncle  is  a  priest  and  has  to  live  amongst  his  people; 
and  he  must  be  careful  in  these  days  when  people,  he 
says,  are  so  critical." 

"Perhaps!  But  somehow  it  seems  to  me,  Annie,  that 
the  Lord  Christ  did  not  heed  these  things  very  much 
when  He  went  about  doing  good." 

The  appeal  was  so  unexpected  that  she  could  not  reply. 

"I  know,"  he  went  on,  "that  a  deeply  religious  girl 
as  you  are,  Annie,  must  be  shocked  at  my  mentioning 
such  a  name  at  all.  Of  course,  I  have  no  more  religion 
than  a  cow,  but  the  little  I  have  learned  has  taught  mo 
that.     And,  do  you  know,  Annie,  it  is  not  altogether  for 


A  DREAD  ORDEAL  367 

nly  own  comfort  I  am  begging  you  to  come.  But  I  know 
I  am  doomed.  I  must  die  in  South  Africa  or  elsewhere; 
and  somehow  I  feel,  you  know,  that  I  should  want  you 
with  me  at  the  last.  You  could  pray  for  me,  or  read  for 
me,  and  perhaps,  when  I  go  over,  they  won't  shut  the 
door  altogether  against  me,  if  you  knock  a  little.  Do, 
Annie!  Come!  If  the  Lord  Christ  were  here,  He  would 
say.  Go!     You  cannot  refuse  Him!" 

The  appeal  was  irresistible  and  she  felt  now  that  she 
should  accompany  the  doomed  life  and  remain  even  unto 
the  end.  But,  although  she  knew  that  it  was  certainly 
arranged,  she  felt  it  a  duty  to  temporize  and  ease  her 
conscience.     After  a  few  seconds'  thought,  she  said: 

"You've  put  things  in  a  new  light.  Jack.  But,  be- 
cause you  have  done  so,  I  must  consult  those  who  are 
my  own  guides  in  matters  of  the  kind.  Give  me  a  couple 
of  days  and  I'll  let  you  know.  But  oh!  I  shall  have  a 
frightful  struggle  with  poor  uncle.  He'll  never  forgive 
me!" 

Her  anguish  appeared  so  acute  that  the  boy's  heart 
was  deeply  touched  and,  gently  laying  his  hand  on  her 
arm  whilst  she  turned  away  her  head,  he  said: 

"There!  Let  us  hear  no  more  about  it,  Annie!  I'm  a 
perfect  brute  to  torment  you.  And  'tis  only  for  a  few 
weeks  of  life,  more  or  less!  I'm  utterly  ashamed  of  my- 
self to  have  pressed  you.  I'll  end  the  matter  now.  And 
after  all  I  can  die  happier  at  home." 

But  she  shook  her  head. 

"That  cannot  be,"  she  said.  "You  must  go  to  South 
Africa  and  I  must  go  with  you.     It  is  Destiny!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

Nature  and  Law 

She  did  not  make  light  of  the  ordeal  before  her.  She 
had  calculated  everything;  and  yet  it  was  only  when  she 
stood  face  to  face  with  her  trial  that  she  realized  its 
magnitude. 

She  consulted  her  confessor  in  the  city  next  day,  telling 
him  candidly  all  her  doubts  and  fears.  He  was  struck 
at  once  by  the  singular  fact  that  she  made  nothing  of  the 
dangers  and  trials  of  travel  in  an  unknown  land,  weighed 
down  and  hampered  by  the  burden  of  a  helpless  and 
hopeless  invalid,  unused  to  the  climate,  and  possibly  be- 
yond the  reach  of  the  most  ordinary  advantages  of  civi- 
lized life.  The  thought  had  not  occurred  to  her  and  she 
brushed  aside  the  difficulty.  But  on  the  question  of 
disobeying  and  even  abandoning  her  uncle  in  his  old  age 
and  with  his  terrible  infirmity,  he  was  peremptory,  and 
sternly  bade  her  to  abandon  the  idea  at  once. 

Almost  in  despair,  she  remembered  the  words  of  the 
wrecked  and  broken  student  and  she  timidly  asked: 

"What  would  our  Lord  do?     What  would  He  say?" 

He  said  coldly: 

"I  don't  know.  I  am  only  judging  by  my  own  weak 
lights  and  they  are  against  your  going  away." 

Then  as  a  final  refuge  she  asked: 

"  If  I  go,  will  it  be  a  sin?  Am  I  contravening  the  will 
of  God?" 

And  he  decided  that  it  might  be  rash,  imprudent,  un- 
dutiful ;  but  she  was  of  an  age  to  decide  her  own  future  and 
he  could  not  say  that  it  would  be  a  sin. 

Meanwhile  a  letter  she  had  written  to  her  little  friend, 

368 


NATURE  AND   LAW  369 

( 

who  was  far  away,  hidden  in  the  cold,  rough  cloisters  of 
her  convent,  praying  and  suffering  for  a  sinful  world,  had 
reached  its  destination  and  was  the  subject  of  anxious 
prayer  to  this  devoted  soul.  And  like  other  saintly 
spirits,  she  did  not  put  her  judgment  to  the  rack,  nor 
torture  her  weak  faculties  by  balancing  arguments.  But 
she  redoubled  her  austerities  and  sought  light  from  the 
only  source  whence  it  is  attainable  by  poor  mortals, 
namely  from  that  Supernal  Wisdom  that  lends  to  feeble 
reason  the  supreme  power  of  '"right  judgments  and  just 
works." 

Then  after  a  day  or  two,  and  haVing  obtained  permis- 
sion from  her  superior,  she  sat  down  and  indited  a  long 
letter  to  her  friend,  writing  in  a  half  conscious  manner  and 
leaving  herself  almost  passive  in  the  hands  of  Him  who, 
she  knew,  would  guide  her  aright.  When  she  read  the 
letter  over,  she  was  rather  surprised  to  find  that  she  had 
advised  Annie  to  do  what  was  heroic,  rather  than  what 
was  prudent,  although  she  thought  she  had  sat  down 
with  the  intention  of  dissuading  her  from  going  abroad 
and  deserting  her  uncle.  But  she  wound  up  the  letter 
with  the  one  sentence  that  would  exculpate  her,  if  she 
had  proved  an  unwise  counsellor: 

"  But  in  this,  dearest  Annie,  and  in  all  other  perplexing 
questions,  there  seems  but  one  safe  principle  to  follow; 
and  that  is  to  seek  the  Will  of  God,  which  you  may  always 
ascertain  by  asking  what  would  our  Lord  do,  or  what 
would  He  wish  me  to  do  under  such  or  such  circumstances. 
As  to  the  opinions  of  the  world,  they  are  not  to  be  noticed 
when  the  Finger  of  God  points  out  a  certain  course. 
There  will  be  Pharisees  to  the  end,  and  Vah!  Vahs! 
and  wagging  of  heads.  But  the  victory  remains  with 
God  and  conscience!" 

Here  then  were  conflicting  opinions;  although  the  girl 
felt  that  there  was  a  singular  coincidence  in  the  very 
words  with  which  the  Protestant  lad  appealed  to  her 
charity  and  the  words  that  came  from  the  cloistered 
CoUettine.  But  she  felt  now  driven  on,  on,  by  some 
25 


370  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

undefined  impulse;  and,  although  she  had  yet  to  face 
the  worst  part  of  her  trial  in  explaining  her  intention 
to  her  uncle,  her  mind  no  longer  wavered.  She  should 
go! 

The  two,  nurse  and  patient,  travelled  together  to  their 
respective  homes  in  the  same  railway  carriage.  His 
father's  brougham  was  waiting  for  him  and  he  drove 
Annie  to  her  uncle's  house.  There,  as  they  parted  and 
shook  hands,  she  said: 

"I  have  consulted  my  friends.  Jack,  and  I'm  going 
with  you.  The  sooner  our  preparations  are  made,  the 
better  for  us  both." 

He  put  her  hand  to  his  lips  and  said : 
"God  bless  you!     Give  me  one  bare  week.     This  day- 
week  we  start  together." 

It  was  a  sad  week  for  the  devoted  girl,  and  yet  her 
decision,  now  with  her  strong  character  unalterable, 
made  the  situation  more  tolerable.  During  the  week 
her  uncle  did  not  relax  the  severity  of  his  manner  towards 
her.  Cold  and  impassive  and  reserved,  he  received  her 
redoubled  attentions  with  a  frigid  pohteness  that  was  less 
tolerable  than  bursts  of  anger.  And  what  she  felt  far 
more  keenly,  the  infirmity  of  almost  total  blindness  had 
reduced  the  old  man  to  a  condition  of  helplessness  and 
weakness  that  was  very  touching.  Watching  him  gro- 
ping his  way  by  feeling  along  the  edges  of  tables  or  the 
bookcase;  seeing  him  silently  brooding  over  the  fire  these 
dread  winter  days  without  the  solace  of  books  or  other 
companionship,  save  the  visit  of  his  curate  to  recite  the 
Divine  Office  with  him;  and  thinking  of  his  utter  lone- 
liness and  abandonment  when  she,  whom  he  expected  to 
be  the  prop  of  his  declining  years,  had  turned  her  back 
upon  him  forever;  her  heart  smote  her  with  compassion 
and  remorse  and  her  consciousness  murmured: 

"Yes,  for  an  alien  in  race  and  rehgion,  you  are  aban- 
doning in  his  helplessness  the  man  who  took  you  into 
his  house  when  you  were  a  helpless  orphan,  and  who  has 
watched  over  you  with  fatherly  interest  all  your  life!" 


NATURE  AND  LAW  371 

Coming  on  to  the  close  of  the  appointed  week,  these 
promptings  became  so  urgent  and  oppressive  that  she 
seemed  almost  like  a  distracted  being;  and  once  or  twice 
she  had  actually  packed  up  her  little  belongings,  deter- 
mined to  steal  away  from  the  house  and  save  herself  the 
agony  and  shame  of  parting.  But  her  pride,  or  native 
strength  of  character,  compelled  her  to  abandon  the  idea 
as  cowardly.  She  should  speak  and  reveal  her  determi- 
nation, no  matter  what  it  cost. 

It  was  the  last  evening  before  the  day  fixed  for  de- 
parture and  she  knew  she  had  to  face  the  bitter  ordeal 
before  the  night  closed  down.  She  had  spoken  to  Father 
Listen  in  the  afternoon  when  he  had  closed  his  daily  visit 
and  told  him  all.     He  had  not  reassured  her. 

"  Probably,  if  I  were  in  the  place  of  your  director,"  he 
said  gravely,  "I  should  have  proffered  the  same  advice, 
because  a  director  has  to  consider  the  spiritual  interests 
of  the  penitent  at  his  feet  and  none  other.  But  somehow, 
if  you  were  to  consult  me  on  the  general  principle  — 
whether  it  were  greater  or  nobler  to  go  abroad  or  to  remain 
at  home  —  well,  I  shouldn't  hesitate  there.  But  your 
uncle  can  take  but  one  view  of  it  —  be  prepared  for  that 
—  and  it  is  not  altogether  the  selfish  one.  But  you  know 
what  a  stickler  he  is  for  law,  for  propriety,  for  the  necessity 
of  avoiding  the  least  thing  that  may  disedify  the  ignorant; 
and  there  he  is  relentless." 

She  only  replied: 

"  May  God  help  me.     It  is  the  hardest  trial  of  my  life." 

And  it  was. 

It  was  just  after  tea  that  she  broached  the  subject  to 
her  uncle.  The  meal  had  been  suffered  by  both  to  pass 
almost  in  silence,  as  if  he  had  a  foreboding  that  it  might 
be  the  last.  Then,  gulping  down  her  emotion  and  sum- 
moning all  her  strength,  she  said: 

"  I  shall  be  leaving  in  the  morning,  Uncle,  and  I  shall 
not  probably  see  you  to  bid  you  good-bye!" 

Something  in  her  tone  of  voice  struck  him,  for  he  raised 
himself  up  into  an  attitude  of  attention. 


372  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  You  are  going  back  to  the  hospital?  "  he  said. 

"No!"  she  rephed.     "I  am  going  to  South  Africa." 

He  started  with  surprise  and  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said,  as  if  anxious  to  reassure  himself: 

"You  have  got  an  appointment  out  there  as  nurse?" 

"No!"  she  said.  "Or  rather,  perhaps,  I  should  say 
yes!  I  am  accompanying  Mr.  Wycherly  as  nurse.  He  is 
ordered  to  South  Africa,  as  the  only  chance  of  saving 
his  life.  We  both  leave  in  the  morning  to  catch  the  Cape 
steamer  in  London." 

He  paused  so  long  that  she  was  beginning  to  hope  that 
he  had  taken  the  matter  indifferently,  but  she  was  soon 
undeceived. 

"You  see  no  impropriety  in  this?"  he  said. 

"  No,  Uncle,"  she  replied.  "  I  thought  you  might  object 
on  that  ground,  so  I  thought  it  well  to  get  the  fullest  assur- 
ance from  our  medical  staff  that  it  was  strictly  correct 
and  professional." 

"  Your  medical  staff!"  he  said,  with  the  old  fierce  scorn 
breaking  through  his  apparent  calm,  "strictly  'correct' 
and  '  professional ' !  And  do  you  think  that  your  medical 
staff  can  break  through  the  commandments  of  God  and 
every  instinct  of  propriety,  which  you  are  about  to  out- 
rage?" 

The  scornful  tone  which  he  assumed  was  lucky  for  her, 
because  her  own  temper  rose  with  it  and  she  said : 

"  I  am  not  aware  that  I  am  about  to  break  any  com- 
mandment of  God;  and  I  cannot  see  the  least  impro- 
priety in  my  accompanying  a  dying  boy  any  more  than 
nursing  him  in  his  own  house." 

"I  thought,"  he  said  with  bitter  sarcasm,  "that  I  had 
already  conveyed  to  you  my  sense  of  the  grave  impro- 
priety —  the  gross  impropriety  of  which  you  have  been 
guilty  in  going  to  Rohira  against  my  wishes,  and  exciting 
the  comments  of  the  entire  parish." 

"  You  should  have  forbidden  me.  Uncle,  to  study  for 
the  profession  at  first.  You  should  have  foreseen  these 
things.     It  is  not  fair  to  allow  me  to  follow  a  profession 


NATURE  AND   LAW  373 

and  get  qualified,  and  then  step  in  with  foolish  scruples 
to  thwart  me." 

"Foolish  scruples?"  he  cried,  turning  around  until  his 
eyes  seemed  to  bum  her  through  the  black  spectacles. 
"  And  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  weigh  for  one  moment 
the  life  of  that  boy,  which,  as  you  say,  is  already  doomed, 
with  the  scandal  you  will  give  to  every  member  of  my 
flock?  How  can  I  face  the  people  again?  How  can  I 
stand  at  God's  altar,  where  I  have  denounced  vice  and 
every  occasion  of  vice  until  I  had  rooted  out  every  possi- 
bility of  sin  in  my  parish?  Will  not  the  people  have  a 
perfect  right  to  turn  round  and  say:  'Physician,  heal 
thyself!  You,  who  have  never  spared  the  feelings  of 
others,  when  sin  was  in  question,  now  let  us  hear  what 
you  have  to  say  of  your  niece?  She  has  eloped,  run  away 
with  that  Protestant  gentleman  —  ' " 

"Uncle!  Uncle!"  cried  the  girl,  her  face  crimson  with 
indignation  and  shame,  "for  shame!  I  never  thought  I 
should  hear  such  cruel,  unjust,  and  uncharitable  things 
from  your  mouth.  You  know  perfectly  well  it  is  not  an 
elopement  —  that  there's  not  a  single  feature  of  anything 
so  base  in  it  —  that  I  am  acting  through  a  pure  sense  of 
Christian  charity  and  my  duty  as  a  hospital-nurse. 
Nor  do  I  believe  that  there  is  even  one  in  the  entire  parish 
that  would  look  at  it  as  you  —  as  you  —  " 

And  here  her  womanly  pride  broke  down  and  she  sobbed 
piteously. 

He  was  not  a  man  to  be  touched  by  such  a  scene;  and, 
even  if  he  were,  he  felt  so  keenly  that  so  great  a  principle 
and  law  was  at  stake  that  he  would  be  equally  relentless. 

"  You  are  gravely  mistaken,"  he  said  in  a  serious  tone 
not  meant  to  be  severe.  "  There  is  not  one  in  this  parish 
that  will  either  understand  or  condone  what  you  purpose 
doing.  The  guilt  or  innocence  of  the  matter  concerns 
yourself.  The  scandal  to  my  parishioners  concerns  me. 
But  there  is  no  use  in  wasting  words  on  such  a  subject. 
You  have  made  your  decision.     And  this  is  mine." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  began  tapping  the  table, 


374  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

as  if  to  measure  his  words  by  that  mechanical  action. 
Then  he  continued: 

"  You  leave  this  house  on  a  mission  that  has  neither 
my  sanction  nor  consent.  You  cannot  return  here  ever 
again.  The  choice  is  not  mine.  It  is  your  own.  I  cannot 
even  seem  to  condone  what  I  regard  as  a  grave  scandal. 
Furthermore,  I  do  not  wish  to  hear  from  you  ever 
again  —  " 

"Uncle!"  pleaded  the  sobbing  girl,  but  she  could  go 
no  further. 

He  rose  up  and  groped  his  way  to  the  bookcase  and, 
taking  out  a  bunch  of  keys,  he  opened  a  bureau  and  took 
out  a  cash-box,  which  he  placed  on  the  table  and  opened. 
He  groped  and  extracted  a  bundle  of  notes,  which  he 
counted  and  placed  on  the  table,  laying  his  hand  on  them. 

"  I  had  kept  these  few  pounds  in  reserve  for  you,  that 
you  might  not  be  penniless  at  my  death.  But  as  this  is 
death,  for  henceforth  you  are  dead  to  me  —  " 

"Uncle,  uncle,  stop,  stop,  or  you'll  kill  me,"  said  the 
poor  girl,  flinging  herself  on  her  knees  before  him.  "Oh, 
you're  a  cruel,  cruel  man!  You  have  no  heart,  no  feeling 
for  anyone.  Oh,  for  God's  sake,  take  back  your  money 
and  give  me  —  give  me  your  blessing!" 

She  leaned  her  arms  on  the  table  and  her  head  on  her 
hands,  and  the  tears  rained  hotly  through  her  fingers. 
Then  Nature  woke  within  him  and,  although  he  was  inex- 
orable, he  felt  deeply  touched. 

"Sit  down,"  he  said,  "and  listen  to  me!" 

She  rose  from  her  kneeling  position  and  sat  down, 
though  she  well  knew  it  was  only  the  prolongation  of  her 
agony. 

He  again  tapped  the  table  gently  with  his  hands  and 
said  rather  gently: 

"  Five  or  six  years  ago,  it  matters  not  which,  I  received 
a  letter  from  a  priest  in  Chicago  to  the  effect  that  my 
sister  had  just  died  and  left  an  orphan  girl  to  my  charge. 
I  had  not  parted  from  that  sister  in  a  very  friendly  way 
and  had  not  heard  from  her  for  years.     And  I  was  a  lonely, 


I  NATURE  AND  LAW  375 

solitary  man,  accustomed  to  quietness  and  solitude  and 
finding  society  of  any  kind  irksome.  I  wrote  promptly 
to  that  priest  to  the  effect  that  under  no  circumstances 
could  I  receive  the  orphan  girl  into  my  house;  that  it 
was  against  our  statutes  to  do  so;  but  that  out  of  my 
limited  means  I  would  provide  amply  for  her  education 
in  America.  I  posted  that  letter  without  a  misgiving, 
but  to  make  my  conscience  more  at  rest  I  consulted  an 
old  woman,  a  saint  in  the  parish,  as  to  what  I  had  done. 
She  was  one  of  those  rare  characters  who  see  things  from 
eternity,  and  she  answered  at  once  that  I  had  done  rightly, 
adding  that  a  priest's  relatives  were  the  flock  that  God 
committed  to  his  care,  and  that  any  solicitude  withdrawn 
from  them  and  given  to  his  relations  in  the  flesh  was  so 
much  taken  from  God,  for  which  God  would  exact  a  cor- 
responding retribution.  I  was  quite  at  ease,  therefore,  in 
my  mind  until  that  Christmas  eve,  when  you,  Annie, 
unexpectedly  arrived.  I  don't  know  if  I  betrayed  my 
feelings,  but  you  were  decidedly  unwelcome  —  " 

"  You  couldn't  have  been  kinder,  Uncle,"  said  Annie  in 
her  tears. 

"Then  I  must  have  prevaricated,  for  I  foresaw  that 
my  peace  of  mind,  along  with  my  beloved  solitude,  was 
banished  forever.  But,"  he  continued  after  a  pause, 
"that  was  but  a  momentary  feeling.  Soon,  very  soon, 
I  saw  in  you,  Annie,  only  a  ray  of  sunlight  shot  by  a 
merciful  Providence  athwart  the  gloom  of  my  declin- 
ing years.  I  saw  in  your  disposition,  your  talents,  your 
firmness  of  character  the  very  ideal  of  all  that  an  old, 
forsaken  man  could  dream  of  as  a  prop  and  support  for 
my  old  age;  and  I  said  to  myself  that  my  remaining 
years  would  be  brightened  and  blessed  by  your  presence, 
and  that  my  growing  infirmity,  which  I  knew  could  only 
end  in  total  blindness,  would  at  least  be  alleviated  by 
such  help  as  a  bright,  intelligent  girl  alone  could  give." 

He  paused  again  and  every  word  was  rankling,  like  an 
arrow,  in  the  soul  of  the  girl. 

"But  now  I  know  that  all  that  was  sin  and  that  it 


376  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

should  bear  its  retribution.  I  broke  the  law,  and  the 
law  has  its  inevitable  revenge.  Instead  of  leaning  on 
God  in  my  old  age  and  under  the  burden  of  many  sorrows, 
I  sought  strength  and  support  in  a  creature.  And,  as 
is  usual  in  all  such  cases,  I  have  leaned  on  a  broken  reed. 
I  am  abandoned  and  deceived." 

"Uncle,  Uncle!"  said  the  poor  girl,  "these  are  hard 
sayings.  How  have  I  deceived  you?  You  made  no 
objection  to  my  adopting  a  profession.  You  should  not 
object  now  to  my  following  it.  Besides,  it  is  only  a  few 
weeks  —  at  most  a  few  months.  Mr.  Wycherly  cannot 
live  long  and  I  shall  be  at  liberty  in  any  case  to  return 
home  when  I  see  him  firmly  and  safely  established  in 
Africa  —  " 

"If  you  mean  by  returning  home,  that  you  shall  be 
at  liberty  to  come  under  my  roof  again,  I  say  most  em- 
phatically, Never!" 

And  he  brought  down  his  clenched  hand  heavily  on 
the  table. 

"I,"  he  continued  fiercely,  "I,  who  have  ostracized 
and  banished  from  this  parish  for  twenty-five  years 
everyone  that  offended  against  public  decency,  I  say 
that  you  shall  never  darken  my  door  again,  or  give  occa- 
sion to  the  impious  to  blaspheme  God." 

She  rose  up  and  went  to  the  door.  His  voice  arrested 
her. 

"Mind,"  he  said,  "there  is  no  passion  or  resentment 
in  what  I  have  said.  But  Law  is  Law  and  I,  its  repre- 
sentative. Let  us  not  part  in  anger,  Annie!  Come 
hither!" 

She  approached  the  table  again  and  he  pushed  the  pile 
of  notes  toward  her. 

"  Take  these,"  he  said.  "  They  are  no  use  to  me  and 
they  were  intended  for  you.     You  will  need  them." 

"I  am  in  no  need  of  money,"  she  replied.  "But  I 
dread  a  long  voyage  without  your  forgiveness.  Uncle, 
can't  you  relent  and  forgive?  Surely  our  Lord  would  not 
approve —  ?" 


^  NATURE  AND  LAW  377 

She  hesitated,  but  he  caught  at  the  word. 

"No!  He  would  never  approve  of  your  conduct  and 
your  action.     Go  and  leave  me  alone!" 

She  went  weeping  to  her  room,  where  she  passed  a 
sleepless  and  sorrowful  night.  And  it  was  only  the  loud 
chiming  of  the  clock  at  midnight  on  his  mantelpiece  in 
the  dining-room  that  woke  up  the  old  man  from  his 
reverie.  He  turned  down  the  lamp,  lighted  his  candle, 
and  groped  his  way  upwards  to  his  bedroom.  He  never 
closed  his  eyes  in  sleep  until  the  gray  dawn  was  breaking 
and,  therefore,  he  could  not  have  heard  a  light  footfall 
stopping  outside  his  door  in  the  early  morning,  or  the 
sound  of  sobbing,  as  the  girl  knelt  and  put  her  lips  to 
the  panels  of  the  door. 

Outside  in  the  cold,  icy  atmosphere  of  a  January  morn- 
ing the  brougham  was  waiting  and  the  coachman  had 
already  hoisted  her  luggage  on  the  top.  Jack  Wycherly, 
looking  wan  and  pinched  and  miserable,  even  though  he 
was  wrapped  to  the  eyes  in  furs,  put  out  one  bony  hand 
and  clasped  the  soft  fingers  of  his  nurse,  as  he  drew  her 
into  the  carriage.  She  turned  away  her  face  after  the 
first  greeting,  but  he  saw  that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"Annie,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  a  sacrifice  you  are 
making.     But  God  will  reward  you." 

In  an  hour  they  were  in  the  train,  speeding  fast  toward 
the  South. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

The  Great  Artist  Again 

The  marriage  of  Kerins  to  Martha  Sullivan  was  cele- 
brated with  much  pomp  and  expense.  The  whole  Clan- 
Sullivan  and  their  gossips  and  neighbours  were  gathered 
together,  not  only  for  the  ceremony  and  the  fun  and  feast- 
ing, but  also  as  a  demonstration  of  strength  and  as  a  warn- 
ing to  all  whom  it  might  concern  that  henceforth  and 
forever  Kerins  had  allied  himself  with  first-rate  powers  in 
the  parish,  and  that  an  offensive  and  defensive  alliance 
was  now  solemnly  made,  which  would  be  opposed  only  at 
the  peril  of  the  offenders. 

Kerins  had  brought  home  his  bride  after  the  festivities, 
and,  having  furnished  his  house  at  some  expense,  he  was 
anxious  to  reciprocate  the  hospitality  of  his  wife's  friends 
and  also  to  show  them  that  it  was  not  to  a  cold  and  inhos- 
pitable hearth  he  had  brought  her. 

It  was  on  the  twenty-ninth  of  January,  the  evening 
after  Annie  O'Farrell  and  her  patient  had  left  for  South 
Africa,  that  the  "house-warming"  took  place.  And  it 
was  so  complete  and  the  hospitality  was  so  profuse,  that 
it  was  regarded  as  a  second  wedding.  Spring-chickens 
were  not  to  be  had,  but  a  few  fat  turkeys,  left  over  after 
the  Christmas  holocaust,  were  ruthlessly  sacrificed,  and 
there  was  salt  meat  enough  boiled  for  the  whole  parish. 
Vast  currant-cakes  were  ordered  up,  too,  from  the  neigh- 
bouring town;  there  were  several  dozens  of  bottled  porter 
and,  as  a  piece  de  resistance,  a  keg  or  cask,  containing  ten 
gallons  of  good  Cork  whiskey.  It  was  none  of  your  well- 
watered,  washy,  pale,  and  limpid  whiskeys  either,  but 
rich,    brown,    sherry-looking    liquor    that    gripped    your 

378 


THE  GREAT  ARTIST  AGAIN  379 

fhroat  and  warmed  you,  inside  and  outside,  and  made 
you  at  peace,  at  least  for  a  while,  with  all  mankind.  The 
big  barn  was  cleared  for  dancing  and  there  were  two 
fiddlers  up  from  the  town,  although  the  boys  and  girls 
had  brought  concertinas  and  accordions  enough  to  make 
an  oratorio. 

Before  the  short,  wintry  day  had  closed  in  some  of 
the  Sullivans  had  again  "walked"  the  farm,  although 
they  had  been  careful  to  do  so  before  the  match  was 
made.  But,  when  men  make  a  good  bargain,  they  like 
to  reassure  themselves  that  all  is  right.  And  so  they 
passed  from  field  to  field,  measuring  the  fecundity  of 
each  and  speculating  on  the  cattle  and  the  sheep  that 
were  yearning  with  their  young.  When  the  night  fell 
the  fun  commenced,  and  the  central  power  whence  all 
the  pleasure  radiated  was  the  bright  young  girl,  who  had 
assumed  the  duties  and  responsibihties  of  the  household. 
She  was  one  of  those  bright,  cheery,  handsome  young 
girls,  who,  self-forgetful  and  unspoiled,  seemed  created 
to  make  everyone  happy  around  her;  and  this  night, 
when  she  appeared  for  the  first  time  as  queen  and  mis- 
tress of  the  place,  she  threw  all  her  energies  into  the 
task  of  making  it  a  memorable  occasion  by  reason  of 
the  splendid  hospitality  that  was  being  dispensed.  There 
were  good  wishes  galore,  too,  shed  around  her,  although 
there  were  also  little  hints  and  suggestions  that  it  was  a 
shame  to  throw  away  such  a  fine  young  creature  on  such 
an  old  and  outworn  husband  as  Kerins.  Of  course, 
this,  too,  was  an  exaggeration,  for  Kerins  was  not  old, 
only  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  he  was  by  no  means  outworn, 
because  he  was  knit  together  in  nerve  and  muscle,  a 
hard-grained,  coarse,  but  by  no  means  vulgar  man.  He 
followed  his  young  wife  with  eyes  of  admiration  during 
all  the  many  events  of  that  long  night;  and  he  thought 
from  what  an  abyss  of  misery  he  had  been  saved  by  the 
intervention  of  the  young  priest,  who  had  taken  him  in 
hand  and  drawn  him  back  from  drink  and  destitution 
to  which  he  had  been  rushing  headlong. 


380  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Father  Liston  for  many  reasons  was  invited  and  came 
to  the  entertainment.  He  was  pleased  to  have  been  in- 
strumental in  placing  this  poor  fellow  on  his  feet  and  in 
bringing  together  certain  elements  in  the  parish,  which 
might  have  been  mutually  hostile.  For  now,  owing  to 
the  blindness  of  the  pastor  and  his  advancing  age,  Henry 
Liston  found  the  entire  burden  of  the  administration  of 
the  parish  devolving  on  his  shoulders  and  he  braced  him- 
self to  the  task  by  prayer  and  work,  that  seemed  to  be 
without  intermission. 

At  the  supper,  which  was  held  about  nine  o'clock, 
although  there  had  been  various  refreshments  dispensed 
throughout  the  evening,  he  thought  it  his  duty  to  make 
a  little  speech,  in  which  he  foretold  all  kinds  of  happi- 
ness for  the  newly-wedded  pair,  and  long  years  of  such 
buoyant  health  and  increasing  prosperity  as  might  excite 
the  emulation,  but  not  the  envy  of  their  neighbours. 

He  was  going  on  gaily,  quite  pleased  with  his  own  elo- 
quence, when  his  eye  caught  suddenly  the  sight  of  the 
great  artist  and  actor,  Delane,  who  was  slowly  wiping 
the  froth  of  bottled  porter  from  his  moustache  and  calmly 
gazing  around  the  table  with  his  old  look  of  superiority 
and  superciliousness.  The  young  priest,  wondering 
what  brought  the  fellow  there  and  still  under  the  spell  of 
his  assumed  superiority,  lost  the  thread  of  his  speech, 
and,  after  stammering  and  faltering  a  little,  he  sat  down. 
There  were  thunders  of  applause,  of  course,  and  a  second 
speech,  and  a  third,  which,  if  not  very  grammatical  and 
consecutive,  were  at  least  pretty  warm  and  cordial.  A 
few  songs,  sentimental  and  patriotic,  closed  the  ceremony 
of  supper,  and  the  company  at  once  adjourned  to  the 
barn. 

Henry  Liston  was  watching  the  opportunity  of  speak- 
ing to  the  "  melancholy  Dane"  and  it  came  soon,  because, 
whilst  the  others  seemed  anxious  for  such  frivolities  as 
dancing,  Delane  clung  to  the  more  substantial  pleasure 
of  drinking.  It  was  clear  that  so  long  as  the  bottled 
porter  lasted,  so  long  would  he  cling  to  his  place  at  the 


THE  GREAT  ARTIST  AGAIN  381 

table.  He  had  one  or  two  boon  companions  with  him, 
to  whom  he  could  dispense  the  riches  of  his  great  intellect, 
and  he  was  happy.  For  there  is  no  happier  man  than 
such  as  he,  who,  surrounded  by  a  circle  of  admirers,  is 
permitted  to  drink  without  interruption  and  talk  with- 
out contradiction. 

When  Henry  approached,  the  admiring  audience  melted 
away,  much  to  Delane's  chagrin,  and  it  was  with  some 
little  pique  he  said,  in  answer  to  Henry's  abrupt  interro- 
gation, "What  brought  you  here,  Delane?  You're  the 
last  man  I  expected  to  see  at  such  a  rural  feast " : 

"  I  am  here,  sir,  in  the  pursuit  of  my  profession." 

The  little  word  "rural,"  however,  seemed  by  some 
subtle  flattery  to  suggest  that  he  was  quite  above  such 
things,  but  was  there  as  a  matter  of  condescension,  for 
he  added : 

"My  work  was  really  completed,  but,  by  request,  I 
remained." 

"But  surely,"  said  Henry  in  all  sincerity,  "you  had 
no  work  to  do  here?  I  can  hardly  imagine  ijou  engaged 
in  a  farmer's  house." 

"Ah,  there  again,"  said  Delane.  "You  appear,  sir,  to 
have  some  unhappy  talent  for  touching  me  where  I  am 
most  sensitive." 

Henry  protested  his  utter  and  entire  innocence  of  any 
desire  to  give  the  great  man  offence.  But  the  great  man 
only  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"It  is  a  fatal  gift  that  some  people  have,"  he  said,  "of 
always  treading  on  the  most  sensitive  nerve  in  the  con- 
stitution of  others,  but  where  is  the  use  of  complaining? 
Where?" 

He  was  so  melancholy  that  Henry  would  have  dis- 
continued the  conversation  and  gone  away,  but  he  knew 
that  the  artist  would  develop. 

"  You  have  expressed  some  surprise,  sir,"  said  he,  after 
a  deep  draught  of  porter,  "  at  my  appearing  in  my  capac- 
ity as  artist  amid  such  humble  surroundings,  but  you 
must  remember  that  even  greater  than  I  painted  frescoes 


38^  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

on  the  walls  of  monastic  cells  and  on  the  panels  of  sac- 
risties. True,  I  have  been  sent  here,  commissioned  by 
the  young  lady,  to  whom  you  have  referred  this  evening 
in  such  eloquent,  but  perhaps  more  or  less  injudicious 
terms,  to  decorate  what  she  is  pleased  to  call  her  draw- 
ing-room —  " 

He  stopped,  bent  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  moaned: 

"Good  God!  To  think  that  I,  the  student  of  Raffaelle 
and  Titian,  should  have  to  daub  in  red  and  ochre  the  cup- 
boards of  a  farmer's  house!  Can  anyone  say  after  this 
that  the  age  in  which  we  live  is  not  an  age  of  utter  degrada- 
tion and  abasement?" 

It  appeared  so  sad  to  the  young  priest  that  he  offered 
his  respectful  sympathies  and  condolences,  but  asked  for 
further  explanations.  He  was  at  a  loss  to  know  how  such 
an  artist  could  be  employed  in  such  vulgar  work. 

"You  see,"  said  Delane,  "that  in  former  days  some 
persons  of  position  may  have  occupied  this  place;  and 
they  had  some  taste  beyond  their  times,  because  they 
had  the  panels  of  their  doors  decorated  by  what  they 
considered  landscape  paintings.  The  daubs  are  abso- 
lutely unearthly  —  no  perspective,  no  proportion  —  a 
swallow,  not  bigger  than  a  honey-bee,  is  in  the  foreground 
and  a  sea-gull  as  big  as  a  gander  is  in  the  far  offing  of 
the  sea.  There  are  green  rocks,  red  rocks,  yellow  rocks; 
blue  waves,  red  waves,  yellow  waves;  a  boat  is  heeling 
over  in  a  position  that  no  boat  ever  yet  assumed  without 
losing  its  centre  of  gravity.  But  I  weary  you.  Suffice 
it  to  say  that  this  young  woman,  ambitious  I  suppose, 
wants  all  this  done  over  again  and  —  in  the  same  style. 
Imagine  my  feelings  when  I  am  compelled  for  base  lucre 
to  paint  a  sky  like  a  kitchen  and  a  sunset  like  a  circus- 
wagon.  I  who  might  have  been  Salvator  Rosa  and  Claude 
Lorraine  in  one,  if  the  Fates  had  allowed!" 

He  stooped  his  head  in  an  attitude  of  melancholy,  but 
immediately  added: 

"I  beg  pardon.  I  am  always  betraying  myself.  Of 
course,  you  have  never  heard  of  Rosa  and  Lorraine." 


THE  GREAT  ARTIST  AGAIN  383 

^  "A  little,"  said  Henry  Listen.  "But  you  said  my 
remarks  a  few  minutes  ago  were  injudicious.     How?" 

"Good  heavens,  sir,"  said  the  artist,  "is  it  possible 
you  didn't  perceive  that  you  made  every  girl  in  the  room 
green  with  envy,  and  every  man  henceforth  a  sworn 
enemy  of  this  peasant,  Kerins?  If  you  didn't  perceive 
it,  the  young  lady  herself  did.  I  never  saw  such  care 
and  melancholy  written  on  the  human  countenance  be- 
fore. It  was  Mrs.  Siddons  posing  for  Tragedy,  but  of 
course,  you  never  heard  of  Siddons?" 

"A  little,"  said  the  young  priest,  moving  away  in  a 
thoughtful  mood,  to  the  intense  relief  of  the  great  artist, 
who  instantly  gathered  around  him  again  his  more  obse- 
quious audience,  to  whom  he  said  with  an  accent  of 
infinite  pity  and  contempt: 

"You  noticed  that  little  passage  of  arms?  It  was  a 
complete  rout.  He  threw  down  his  arms  and  fled.  A 
most  unsophisticated  young  gentleman!  There  is  no 
greater  greenhorn  than  a  young  clerical  person,  unless 
it  be  one  of  these  peasant  people.  But  then  sometimes 
they  develop  into  a  truculent  old  savage  like  this  young 
person's  parish  priest  —  a  real,  downright,  undiluted 
Bashi-Bazouk,  who  knows  no  more  about  Art  than  a 
cow  about  a  hohday,  and  who  probably  thinks  that 
Michael  Angelo  was  a  country  fiddler." 

"I  wish  he  heard  you,"  said  one  of  the  audience,  but 
sotto  voce  so  as  not  to  offend  the  great  man. 

"Heard  me?"  said  the  latter.  "Yes,  he  did  and  saw 
me.  And  he  is  not  likely  to  forget  it.  I  heard  he  took 
to  his  bed  very  soon  after  my  interview  with  him  and  that 
he  has  lost  his  eyesight." 

"So  he  has!  That's  true!"  was  the  confirmation  of 
several. 

"I'm  sorry,"  said  the  artist  loftily.  "But  when  you 
provoke  genius,  you  must  take  the  consequences.  If 
you  stare  at  the  sun,  what's  the  result?" 

"Why,  you  run  blind,  of  course,"  was  the  reply. 

"Precisely,"  said  the  artist. 


384  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

It  was  quite  true,  however,  what  the  rascal  had  said 
about  the  young  bride  and  mistress  of  the  revels  that 
night.  Instead  of  being  exalted  by  the  praises  of  the 
young  priest,  she  seemed  to  have  been  drawn  by  his 
remarks  into  a  pensive  mood  that  sat  perhaps  on  her 
features  even  more  pleasantly  than  smiles  or  laughter, 
but  yet  was  an  indication  that  beneath  the  riotousness 
and  hilarity  of  the  evening  she  saw  some  reasons  for 
sadness  —  regret  for  the  past,  or  apprehensions  for  the 
future?  It  was  both.  Some  words  the  young  priest 
had  dropped  inadvertently  seemed  to  waken  up  echoes 
from  a  not  distant  past,  when  she  was  all  but  affianced 
to  another.  And,  though  Dick  Duggan  was  not  an 
Adonis,  yet  he  was  twenty  years  younger  than  her  hus- 
band, and  he  was  a  bluff,  blundering,  truculent  fellow, 
but  yet  possessed  of  that  fierce  animal  courage  that  will 
always  appeal  to  the  imagination  of  the  young.  Not 
that  she  regretted  what  she  had  done,  but  these  rays 
of  darkness  will  shoot  out  from  the  past  and  trouble  the 
felicities  of  the  present.  She  had  not  met  Dick  Duggan, 
nor  any  of  the  family,  since  her  marriage.  She  rather 
shunned  them.  But  yet  this  night,  when,  surrounded 
by  friends  and  honoured  as  the  queen  of  these  festivities, 
she  felt  she  had  reached  the  summit  of  human  happiness, 
a  little  remorse  for  her  former  lover  would  creep  in,  and 
with  it,  a  half-stifled  yearning  to  see  him  and  make  a 
reparation  of  words  to  him.  The  desire  seemed  to  grow 
stronger  in  the  heart  of  the  girl  as  the  night  waxed  and 
the  fun  grew  more  furious;  and  at  length,  going  into  the 
kitchen  for  some  domestic  purpose,  she  chanced  to  see 
Cora,  the  gypsy  girl,  in  a  corner,  mute,  silent,  in  her 
favourite  attitude  of  listening — knees  bent  up  and  elbows 
resting  on  them  and  her  head  resting  on  her  hands,  and 
after  a  while,  she  beckoned  to  the  girl  and  went  out. 

In  gloomy  contrast  with  the  light  and  the  fun  and  the 
festivities  in  Crossfields,  the  cottage  where  the  Duggans 
resided  was  sunk  in  darkness  and  suUen  misery  that 


THE  GREAT  ARTIST  AGAIN  385 

/'night.  The  family  were  grouped  around  the  fire,  so 
despondent  and  enraged  that  not  a  word  broke  the  silence. 
The  men  smoked  and  looked  at  the  fire.  The  women 
bent  forward  in  melancholy  meditation.  The  sounds  of 
the  fiddles,  sometimes  the  echo  of  a  song,  and  sometimes 
the  pattering  of  feet  crept  now  and  again  to  their  ears 
to  redouble  their  despondency. 

Late  that  night  and  just  as  they  were  thinking  of  retir- 
ing, the  latch  of  the  door  was  suddenly  and  unceremo- 
niously lifted,  and  Cora,  the  gypsy  girl,  without  a  word 
of  apology,  came  in,  and  uninvited  took  a  seat  near  the 
fire.  For  a  few  moments  not  a  word  of  greeting  or  in- 
quiry was  uttered;  and  then  the  old  man,  taking  the  pipe 
from  his  mouth  and  pointing  over  his  shoulder,  said: 

"You  have  been  over  there?" 

"Yes!"  she  said,  carelessly  looking  round  and  studying 
the  faces  that  seemed  so  weird  and  haggard  in  the  red  light 
of  the  peat-fire,  "There's  a  goodly  gatherin'  over  there!" 

"And  plenty  of  fun?" 

"Yes.  Hark!  That  is  the  dancing  in  the  bam.  It 
is  a  gay  scene." 

"I  guess  their  ceol  will  be  changed  into  keening  before 
long,"  said  Dick  Duggan  savagely. 

The  girl  tried  to  catch  his  eye  and  beckon  to  him,  but 
failed.     He  was  too  preoccupied  with  his  savage  thoughts. 

"I  hope  Mr.  Wycherly  will  survive  the  voyage!"  said 
the  gypsy  girl  meaningly. 

"What  voyage?  Is  he  gone?"  was  the  query  all 
round. 

"Yes.  He  departed  for  the  Cape  yesterday  morning, 
but  he  didn't  go  alone." 

"Of  course,  not,"  said  the  old  woman.  "The  poor 
boy  couldn't  never  bear  the  journey;  and  I  believe  'tis 
as  far  away  as  America." 

"No!"  said  the  girl,  looking  at  the  fire  and  apparently 
speaking  to  herself.  "  He  took  a  companion  —  a  wife, 
I  should  say.  The  parish  priest's  niece  eloped  with 
him." 

26 


386  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY  | 

The  whole  family  sprang   to  their  feet.     Crossfields       ? 
was  forgotten.     With  savage  glee,  Dick  Duggan  said: 

"Divil  a  betther!  I  wondher  will  we  hear  anything 
from  the  althar  now?  Divil  a  betther  thing  happened 
for  many  a  long  day." 

"  She  couldn't  have  betther  luck,"  said  his  sister,  who 
shared  the  brother's  hatred  toward  the  girl. 

"Is  it  gone  abroad  a-yet?"  said  Dick  eagerly. 

"Well,  'tis  known  down  along  the  valley,"  said  Cora. 
"  It's  in  the  mouths  of  all  the  people." 

"Tis  a  lie  for  you,  you  young  hussy,"  said  the  old 
woman  in  a  furious  temper.  "Get  out  of  me  house,  ye 
young  haythen,  an'  never  darken  the  door  agen.  'Tis 
a  black  day,  whin  the  likes  of  you  can  blacken  the  char- 
ackther  of  ivery  dacent  person  in  the  parish." 

The  gesture  that  accompanied  the  words  was  unmis- 
takable. The  girl  coolly  rose  and,  as  she  passed  Dick, 
she  gently  plucked  his  coat  and  vanished  in  the  darkness. 
He  understood  and  followed. 

"You're  stupid,"  she  said.  "I  beckoned  to  you  and 
you  wouldn't  see.     You're  wantin'  over  there!" 

"Over  where?"  he  said,  mystified  and  incredulous. 

"Over  there!"  she  said,  pointing  to  Crossfields.  "Go 
down  by  the  ploughed  field  and  into  the  screen  near  the 
house  and  wait." 

"But  who  wants  me  and  for  what?"  he  asked. 

"The  young  missus.  She  will  speak  to  you  herself," 
said  the  girl;  and  so  silently  she  vanished  that  it  was 
some  time  before  he  knew  he  was  alone. 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  Brothers  Meet 

High  up  on  the  mountain  slopes  of  Kaffraria,  within 
view  of  the  great  mountain  range  of  the  Drakensberg, 
and  in  a  little  village  where  a  few  whites  resided  and  a 
great  many  Kaffirs,  Jack  Wycherly  and  his  nurse  had 
taken  up  their  residence.  He  had  picked  up  great 
strength  on  his  sea-voyage  and  all  the  terrible  depression 
that  was  consequent  on  his  illness  seemed  to  have  left 
him,  when  the  good  ship  "The  Dunrobin  Castle,"  after 
surmounting  the  huge  seas  and  the  fierce  tempests  of 
the  Bay  of  Biscay,  glided  into  more  tranquil  ocean- 
spaces,  and  the  breezes  from  the  south,  laden  to  the  eager 
imagination  of  the  invalid  with  healing  warmth  and  the 
odour  of  tropical  spices,  stole  over  the  sunny  waters  and 
lingered  from  dawn  to  dark.  After  the  first  week,  he 
spent  all  his  time,  day  and  night,  on  deck,  sometimes 
walking  up  and  down  the  long  narrow  passages,  more 
often  reclining  in  his  hammock,  that  was  swung  under 
the  eaves  of  the  upper  deck  and  thus  sheltered  from  sun 
and  rain.  He  was  the  object  of  respectful  sympathy 
during  the  three  weeks'  voyage  to  the  Cape;  and  his 
nurse,  sometimes  taken  for  his  sister,  sometimes  for  his 
wife,  received  the  most  unvarying  courtesy  from  captain, 
crew,  and  passengers.  This  became  even  more  pro- 
nounced, when  a  little  halo  of  romance  was  thrown 
around  her,  and  it  became  known  that  she  had  sacri- 
ficed a  good  deal  through  a  spirit  of  devotion  toward 
the  stricken  and  dying  boy. 

They  had  been  advised  by  experienced  persons  to  go 
as  far  up  the  country  and  as  far  inland  as  possible;  and 

387 


388  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

hence,  instead  of  remaining  at  Capetown,  they  went  dn 
to  a  further  port,  East  London,  whence  they  plunged 
at  once  into  the  wilderness  of  veldt  and  brush  and  kloof. 
Their  destination  now  was  Aliwal  North,  a  station  on 
the  very  borders  of  the  Orange  River  Colony,  where  the 
rainfall  was  comparatively  little,  and  the  temperature 
even,  and  the  air  dry  and  bracing.  But  the  sudden 
strength  acquired  during  the  sea-voyage  seemed  to  have 
ebbed  away  in  the  heat  and  moisture  of  the  coast;  and 
they  closed  their  journey  by  breaking  off  at  Amabele  Junc- 
tion and  making  for  the  little  village  of  Butterworth. 

Here,  in  a  kind  of  shanty,  half-hotel,  half-store,  and 
combining  post-office,  newspaper  depot,  saloon,  etc.,  they 
found  themselves  at  first  located.  But  the  ebbing 
strength  of  the  boy  made  him  irritable  and  impatient 
of  noises,  and  nervously  susceptible  to  such  inconven- 
iences as  will  arise  from  a  mixed  and  not  highly-civilized 
community.  And,  after  a  few  weeks,  he  changed  to 
an  improvised  sanatorium,  hastily  constructed  by  the 
willing  hands  of  the  natives.  It  was  made  of  shingle, 
roofed  with  corrugated  iron,  that  seems  to  be  the  most 
attainable  and  useful  commodity  in  South  Africa,  but 
it  was  so  placed  that  the  thick  foliage  of  the  trees  sheltered 
the  roof  from  the  burning  sun  and  from  the  tropical 
rains  when  they  came.  Annie  remained  at  the  hotel, 
visiting  her  patient  several  times  a  day  and  ministering 
to  his  ever-increasing  wants.  Here  she  was  brought 
into  contact  with  the  most  diverse  specimens  of  humanity 
—  Bushmen,  Hottentots,  Griguas,  Zulus,  Basutos,  Boers, 
and  tribesmen,  English  speculators,  and  Dutch  veldts- 
men,  Cambridge  M.A.'s  and  Hooligans  from  the  East 
End  of  London.  But  somehow  the  savageries  of  civili- 
zation seemed  to  have  toned  down  into  a  broader  spirit 
of  humanity,  as  there  was  more  equality  of  condition 
and  community  of  interests.  And  over  this  motley 
commonwealth,  Annie  O'Farrell  assumed  in  an  incredibly 
short  space  of  time  a  kind  of  queenship,  undesired,  but 
in  its  own  way  delightful  to  the  lonely  girl. 


THE  BROTHERS  MEET  389 

For  now,  at  night,  when  the  heavy  odours  of  the  masses 
of  arum  lilies,  that  grew  in  thick  profusion  down  in  the 
deep  valleys  by  the  wady,  where  the  kraals  of  the  natives 
were  pitched,  came  up  on  the  night-wind  and  filled  her 
little  chamber,  and  the  scream  of  the  jackal  and  the  harsh 
cries  of  the  prowling  Cape  tiger  awoke  the  echoes  along 
the  silent,  moonlit  street,  the  thoughts  of  the  young  girl 
would  wander  back  to  the  lonely  old  man,  sitting  sight- 
less by  his  fireside,  alone  with  his  own  thoughts,  and 
these  thoughts,  she  surmised,  were  bitter.  What  had 
happened?  Was  there  grave  scandal  given  to  these 
primitive  people;  or  had  they  intelligence  enough  to 
understand  the  mission  of  mercy  on  which  she  had  staked 
home  and  happiness,  life,  and  even  reputation?  What 
was  said  of  her  at  the  hospital?  Quite  true,  there  was 
nothing  in  the  least  irregular  in  what  she  had  done. 
Every  day  young  nurses  went  forth  to  carry  their  knowl- 
edge and  skill  to  bedsides,  where  the  old  and  young,  the 
rich  and  poor,  had  to  submit  to  the  inexorable  law  of 
suffering.  But  still  there  was  something  peculiar  in 
her  case;  and  how  would  it  be  interpreted?  And  the 
long  wail  of  the  jaguar  would  echo  from  the  veldt  as 
the  only  answer;  and  the  brilliant  southern  moon  would 
throw  its  gold  across  the  white  counterpane  of  her  bed; 
and  she  would  drop  to  sleep  to  find  broken  answers  to 
her  questions  in  strange  and  inharmonious  dreams. 

During  the  day  such  thoughts  troubled  her  but  little. 
Three  or  four  times  before  dinner  she  would  have  to 
visit  her  patient  and  take  to  him  from  the  kitchen  of 
the  saloon  such  little  delicacies  as  she  could  procure. 
Then  she  had  to  tidy  up  his  cabin,  arrange  his  hammock, 
read  for  him,  chat  with  him.  And  when  she  was  not 
engaged  there  very  often  she  was  summoned  to  the 
bedside  of  some  poor  miner,  who  was  stricken  down 
with  disease  and  drink;  and  by  her  soothing  and  simple 
ways  she  tried  to  exorcise  the  devils  that  a  poisoned  or 
diseased  imagination  had  called  up.  But  more  often 
she   found    herself   down    amongst    the    native   kraals, 


390  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

where  the  magnificent  physique  with  which  Nature  had 
largely  endowed  her  children  had  been  ruined  or  impaired 
even  by  such  slender  contact  with  civilization.  Yea, 
the  very  vices  and  diseases  of  modern  life  had  crept 
into  the  very  sanctuary  of  the  great  Mother;  and  it  was 
no  unusual  sight  for  Annie  to  see  some  black  Hercules 
struggling  in  the  throes  of  delirium  tremens,  or  some 
Venus  in  ebony  gasping  under  the  suffocation  of  pneu- 
monia or  diphtheria,  names  and  things  unknown  among 
the  native  hills. 

But  her  tender  and  affectionate  solicitude,  dictated  by 
a  kind  heart  and  Christian  charity,  struck  home  to  the 
hearts  of  these  poor  creatures;  and  in  a  short  time  she 
was  to  them  their  "white  queen,"  enthroned  and  crowned 
by  their  gratitude. 

One  day  when  she  was  reading  under  the  thick  shade 
of  the  palms  that  sheltered  the  little  bungalow  or  tent 
where  Jack  Wycherly  was  gasping  out  the  feeble  remnants 
of  his  life,  he  stopped  her  suddenly  and  said : 

"Annie,  turn  down  the  leaf  there  and  let  us  talk." 

"You  mustn't  talk  too  much,  Jack,"  she  said.  "It 
is  distressing  and — "  she  stopped  a  moment,  fearing 
to  alarm  him  —  "  you  know  we  cannot  get  ice  or  ergo- 
tine  here." 

He  understood  what  she  meant,  but  he  went  on. 

"I  have  lost  all  fear  now.  The  sight  of  these  poor 
savages  and  the  still  more  savage  whites  that  are  here 
has  reconciled  me  to  death.  I  want  to  get  away  from 
all  this  horrible  animalism.  I  can't  make  out  why  I 
clung  so  fiercely  to  such  a  wretched  life." 

"Everyone  clings  to  life.  It  is  quite  natural,"  she 
said  simply. 

"Yes,  but  why?  This  is  what  tortures  me.  I  had 
no  idea  we  were  so  near  the  brutes  until  I  came  here 
and  saw  nature  in  all  its  nakedness.  It  is  horrible. 
I'm  dying  to  die  —  to  get  away  from  all  the  horror  of 
living." 

"That  is  morbid,  Jack,"  she  said.     "And  besides,  life 


THE  BROTHERS  MEET  391 

is  but  the  outer  porch  of  eternity.  You  believe  in  tho 
soul  and  in  God,  Jack,  don't  you?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  to  him  of  religion 
and  she  did  so  with  all  that  strange  reluctance  and  half- 
shame  that  Catholics  feel  on  such  occasions. 

"I  didn't  believe  in  Him  till  I  knew  you,  Annie,"  he 
replied.     "  I  believe  in  Him  now." 

The  words  struck  her  silent,  but  he  went  on : 

"You  mustn't  mind  what  a  poor  devil  with  one  foot 
in  the  grave  is  saying,  Annie.  But  you  have  brought 
back  to  me  all  that  I  had  ever  learned  in  my  childhood 
about  religion  and  all  that  I  had  forgotten  in  science. 
It  is  hard  to  help  thinking  when  you  are  probing,  and 
cutting,  and  tearing  open  the  human  mechanism  that 
it  is  all  but  a  piece  of  chemistry,  animated,  of  course,  but 
still  a  chemical  compound  and  no  more.  But  when  one 
sees  you  and  such  as  you,  the  question  will  arise,  Whence 
came  all  this  goodness  and  truth,  and  mercy  and  love? 
Phosphorus  and  lime  and  iron  don't  possess  these  things. 
There  is  some  other  principle  containing  them  all,  and 
in  perfection;  and  that  is  God.  There,  Annie,  see  what 
a  controversialist  you  are  without  ever  opening  your 
lips  on  religion  to  me." 

"I  think.  Jack,"  she  said  after  a  pause,  "it  would  be 
well  if  you  allowed  me  to  read  something  for  you  and  to 
pray  for  you,  as  there  is  no  minister  of  your  religion  here." 

"The  very  thing  I  was  going  to  ask,"  he  said.  "But 
I  was  shy.  And  I  think  I  must  make  my  will  also.  The 
sands  are  running  out  fast." 

And  so  that  afternoon  and  several  times  a  day  from 
that  day  forward  she  read  for  him  chapter  after  chapter 
of  the  New  Testament  and  the  Imitation  of  Christ  alter- 
nately; and  a  great  change  seemed  to  come  over  him,  so 
gentle  and  so  resigned,  so  patient  and  forbearing  he 
became. 

It  was  about  a  week  after  this  conversation  that, 
waking  up  one  afternoon  in  his  hammock  and  finding 
Annie  ever  watchful  near  him,  he  said  abruptly: 


392  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"I  wonder  who  Is  this  Ba-as!  as  the  natives  call  him, 
about  whom  they  are  always  speaking." 

"I  cannot  say,"  said  Annie,  who  was  more  solicitous 
about  her  patient  than  eager  to  hear  the  gossip  of  the 
place.  "Some  rancher,  I  suppose,  or  miner  up  amongst 
the  hills." 

"Because,"  said  Jack,  following  his  own  thoughts, 
"there  is  a  time  in  sleep  just  when  the  brain  is  waking 
up  to  consciousness,  do  you  know,  and  you  see  things 
by  second-sight.  Now  that  happened  to  me  a  few  nights 
ago.  By  the  way,  did  any  letters  come  from  home  yet, 
Annie?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"No!"  she  said.  "You  know  I  wrote  father  all  along 
the  route  and  I  expect  he  will  write.  We  are  not  here 
very  long  as  yet,  you  know." 

"True,"  he  said  musingly.  "And  Pap  was  a  poor 
correspondent  at  best.  But  he  knows  now  where  we 
are  and  he  must  write,  if  only  to  acknowledge  your 
letter." 

"  But  as  I  was  saying,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause,  "  you 
know  Mackenzie  was  down  here  a  few  nights  ago  and 
we  had  a  few  pitched  battles  about  Moore  and  Burns 
and  all  that  patriotic  rot  that  fools  will  talk  about  to 
the  end  of  time.  Then  he  got  on  religion,  just  because 
he  hadn't  any.  These  fellows  are  always  dragging  up 
religion.  They  are  like  fellows  that  have  committed 
some  secret  crime  and  they  must  be  hinting  at  it.  He 
was  talking  about  his  atheism  and  all  that,  and  science 
and  all  that.  And  I  was  tired,  and  I  could  only  point 
up  and  say,  in  the  old  way:  'Messieurs,  who  made  all 
that?'  You  know  the  way  the  skies  look  down  here, 
Annie;  and  just  then  some  of  the  stars  looked  so  ripe 
and  rich  that  I  thought  they  would  drop  down  on  us. 
Well,  he  didn't  like  it,  and  said  something  about  cosmic 
forces  and  all  that.  And  then  he  said:  'There's  a  chap 
up  along  here,  a  rich  fellow  with  a  small  army  of  natives, 
and  he's  always  talking  that  way  to  them,  and  telling 
them  to  be  decent  and  clean  and  sober,  because  there 


THE  BROTHERS  MEET  393 

are  eyes  watching  them  out  of  eternity.  Well,  that's 
not  the  queer  thing.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  when  the 
dawn  was  breaking  behind  here  and  just  as  I  woke  up, 
or  rather  just  before  I  woke  up  to  consciousness,  I  thought 
a  man  stood  by  here,  dressed  in  the  manner  of  the  Boers 
or  ranchers  and  with  a  great  long  whip  in  his  hand.  And 
he  looked  at  me  earnestly  and  said  nothing.  And  then 
the  thought  would  occur;  and  I  said  to  myself,  first, 
That's  the  Ba-as,  the  natives  are  speaking  about.  And 
just  as  I  thought  this,  the  figure  turned  and  it  was  Dion!" 

Annie  looked  at  him  curiously  and  he  noticed  her 
incredulity. 

"Never  fear,"  he  said,  "it  is  not  tuberculous  delirium, 
although  I  suppose  that  will  come.  It  was  only  a  dream, 
yet  more  than  a  dream,  because  I  was  conscious,  at  least 
I  think  so,  and  I  saw  the  face  and  features  of  Dion." 

"  Dion  must  be  dead,"  said  Annie,  unwilling  to  encour- 
age the  delusion.  "At  least,  everyone  thinks  so.  You 
know  he  hasn't  written  for  years." 

"Well,  we'll  let  it  pass,"  he  said.  "But  it  is  strange 
—  that  vivid  action  of  the  brain  just  as  it  is  waking  up. 
I  wonder  shall  I  get  a  glimpse  into  the  future  just  as  I 
am  nearing  death?" 

"  It  may  be,"  she  said  simply.  "  But  let  us  not  antici- 
pate all  that." 

"Why?  How  much  you  are  afraid,  Annie,"  he  said. 
"Now,  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid,  only  eager  to  cast  off  this 
old  and  worn-out  and  patched-up  gabardine  of  a  body. 
Oh,  I  must  make  that  will  to-morrow;  and  I'm  to  be 
buried,  not  down  in  that  dismal  hollow,  where  the  Bush- 
men are,  but  on  the  highest  spot  of  this  hill  —  just  where 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun  will  strike  in  the  morning  and 
his  last  rays  linger  at  sunset.  You'll  promise  that,  won't 
you?" 

But  the  girl  was  weeping  for  the  sorrow  and  loneliness 
of  the  thing,  and  could  not  answer. 

"Why,  you're  crying,  Annie!"  said  the  boy.  "Now, 
you   shouldn't   cry.     Don't,   dearl     You   shouldn't   cry, 


394  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

for  you'll  see  Ireland  and  old  Rohira  again.  But  I  — 
never!    What  matter!    Annie!" 

"Well,  Jack!" 

"Just  say  a  little  prayer  for  me  and  I'll  listen.  What 
a  strength  there  is  in  prayer!" 

And  she  prayed  there  for  the  dying  boy,  who  was 
visibly  fading  away  —  prayed  there  on  the  lonely  veldt, 
whilst  the  hot  sun  tried  to  peer  through  the  thick  lattice 
of  the  trees,  and  gay  birds  chattered  overhead,  and  the 
sound  of  an  oath  came  down  from  the  saloon,  or  the 
shrill  cries  of  Basuto  women  came  up  from  the  deep 
valley  beneath. 

"It  is  good  and  holy  and  refreshing,"  he  said,  leaning 
back  in  his  hammock.  "I  made  a  little  prayer  myself 
last  night,  when  I  was  watching  the  stars  and  saw  the 
Hand  of  God  swinging  them  in  their  orbits.  Shall  I 
say  it?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said. 

And  with  a  faint  blush  mantling  his  cheeks,  he  said: 

Spirit  of  Light,  from  Whose  dark  depths  I  came, 

Spirit  of  Darkness,  Who  hath  ever  shone 

Around  me;  Whose  Unutterable  Name 

I  seldom  stammered  in  the  life  that's  gone 

Back  to  its  fountain  —  Thee,  The  Eternal  Sea, 

Whose  waters  are  not  bitter,  but  most  sweet. 

Lo!     In  the  depths  I've  fought  and  conquered  Thee, 

And  victor  lay  me  prostrate  at  Thy  Feet. 

Guide  me,  O  Light!  along  the  weary  path 
That  lies  still  darker  than  the  way  I've  trod; 
Wash  me,  O  Fountain,  in  Thy  silvery  bath, 
Make  white  my  vesture,  ere  I  see  my  God. 
Thou,  the  All-Pure,  make  clean  my  spotted  soul! 
Thou,  the  All-Rich,  enrich  my  poverty! 
Cast  roimd  my  neck  the  white  and  spotless  stole. 
Thy  clasp  of  Love  —  Thy  seal  of  purity. 

I  see  Thee  swinging  those  vast  orbs  of  Light. 
I  watch  Thee  pour  into  the  lily's  vase 


THE   BROTHERS  MEET  395 

Odours  distilled  beneath  the  noon  of  night, 
Plucked  with  the  dew  from  out  the  myriad  maze 
Of  flowered  fancies,  each  so  subtly  wrought 
It  needed  all  Thy  Godhead's  Science  and  Sense 
To  fashion  in  the  forms  which  Thou  hast  brought 
Within  the  orb  of  Thine  Omnipotence. 

Take  my  frail  life,  frail  as  the  moth  that  wings 
Its  rapid  flight  in  one  melodious  breath, 
And  fashion  it  anew  with  all  those  things 
Cast  in  the  brazen  crucible  of  Death. 
Lo!  as  my  pulses  flag,  my  senses  die, 
I  feel  Thee  coming  near,  and  ever  near. 
I  hear  Thee  in  my  last  unuttered  sigh: 
My  spirit  lingers;  but  my  God  is  here! 

"Do  you  like  it,  Annie?"  he  said,  when  he  had  con- 
cluded. 

"Very  much.     It  is  very  solemn  and  sweet,"  she  said, 

"It  is  prayer,  at  least,"  he  said,  "if  it  isn't  poetry. 
I  used  to  read  and  scribble  poetry  long  ago  at  the  Queen's. 
But  it  wasn't  like  that." 

The  next  morning  a  letter  arrived  from  Rohira.  It 
was  a  brief  letter,  such  as  the  doctor  always  wrote.  It 
contained  some  Bills  of  Exchange,  so  that  money  should 
never  be  wanting,  and  one  item  of  news,  namely,  that  a 
large  party,  a  kind  of  house-warming,  had  been  given 
at  Kerins's;  and  that  some  day  during  the  following  week, 
Kerins  had  been  found  murdered.  Duggan  had  been 
arrested  for  the  crime  and  committed  for  trial  to  the 
Assizes,  the  evidence  against  him  being  overwhelming. 

After  Annie  had  read  the  letter  twice,  the  boy  answered : 

"How  little  that  fact  interests  us.  I  suppose  it  is  a 
matter  of  moment  there,  far  away  under  the  dripping 
skies  of  Ireland.  But  it  does  not  interest  us  any  more. 
Annie?" 

"Well?"  she  said. 

"  I  saw  Dion  again  last  night.  He  stood  over  me  and 
looked  keenly  and  inquiringly  at  me.  Has  any  stranger 
been  up  around  the  town?" 


396  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"  There  are  so  many  strangers  coming  and  going  every- 
day," she  said,  "that  one  would  hardly  be  noticed.  But 
surely  this  is  some  delusion.  Jack.  Did  you  question  the 
men,  who  were  on  watch?" 

"  I  cannot  get  a  word  out  of  them,"  he  said.  "  When 
I  speak  to  them  on  any  ordinary  subject,  they  talk  the 
usual  pigeon-English.  But  when  I  ask  them  about  this, 
they  talk  a  lot  of  gibberish.  If  they  have  seen  anyone, 
they  won't  tell." 

"They'll  tell  me,"  she  said.  "But  I  still  think  it  is  a 
delusion,  Jack,  which  you  ought  dismiss.  What  shall  I 
say  to  father?" 

"  Write  as  you  deem  wisest,"  he  said.  "  But  leave  me 
a  space  at  the  end." 

Annie  was  somewhat  disappointed  and  annoyed,  when 
on  interrogating  the  natives  she  could  only  elicit  the 
same  undistinguishable  sounds  in  their  own  language 
which  had  so  annoyed  Jack  Wycherly.  She  thought 
she  had  a  firmer  hold  over  their  affections  and  she  be- 
lieved all  their  eloquent  protestations  of  fidelity  and 
affection.  But  she  could  get  no  information  on  that 
subject.  And,  stranger  still,  when  she  questioned  the 
people  around  the  hotel,  they  had  as  little  information 
to  give.  Strangers  of  all  kinds  rode  in  and  out  of  the 
township  —  rough,  strong  men,  great  feeders  and  drink- 
ers, and  fierce  fighters,  if  occasion  offered.  They  sat  and 
ate,  drank  and  sang,  harnessed  their  horses,  paid  their 
bin«,  and  departed.  They  came  and  went,  Hke  the 
sanJ-storms  that  blew  down  from  the  hills  and  filled  the 
liquor-measures  with  fine  grit  and  dust. 

She  tried  to  dismiss  the  idea  and  set  it  down  as  a  delu- 
sion of  the  sick  boy's,  as  she  tried  to  persuade  him.  But 
somehow,  his  insistence  on  the  matter  staggered  her 
belief  and  she  began  to  think  that  stranger  things  have 
happened.  But  then  the  thought  would  occur.  Why  was 
he  so  mysterious  in  his  movements?  If  it  were  Dion, 
why  not  reveal  himself  at  once  and  come  to  his  brother's 


THE  BROTHERS  MEET  397 

assistance?  For  it  was  clear  that  if  Dion  were  the  Ba-as, 
about  whom  the  natives  were  always  speaking  and  whom 
they  evidently  regarded  with  a  species  of  adoration,  he 
could  do  a  great  deal  for  his  brother  in  this  strange  and 
mysterious  country. 

She  had  written  the  reply  to  Dr.  Wycherly's  letter, 
leaving  a  blank  space  in  the  end  for  Jack's  few  words. 
These  he  filled  in  and  closed  up  the  envelope  and  handed 
it  back  to  Annie  to  post. 

Next  night,  just  as  she  thought  the  dawn  was  breaking 
over  the  sleepy  town,  Annie  arose  and  dressed  herself 
hastily  and  went  out.  She  had  been  mistaken.  It  was 
the  strong  moonlight,  vivid  as  a  summer  dawn,  that 
deceived  her.  The  great  round  globe  was  slowly  falling 
behind  the  hills,  but  its  yellow  radiance  lit  up  the  whole 
landscape,  throwing  its  golden  rays  across  every  hillock 
and  palm-tree  and  casting  the  shadows  into  deeper 
blackness. 

Swiftly  and  silently  she  passed  down  the  moonlit 
street,  undisturbed  and  unchallenged,  except  when  some 
restless  dog  barked  behind  some  thick  enclosure,  and 
moved  rapidly  downward  to  the  sheltered  nook,  where 
the  consumptive  boy  was  sleeping  with  easy  breathing 
of  the  dry  and  aromatic  air.  When  she  came  near  she 
heard  a  low,  warning  cry,  which  she  recognized  as  that 
of  the  two  Griguas  or  Bushmen,  who  took  their  turn 
in  watching  the  sick  boy  during  the  night;  and,  to  her 
surprise,  she  saw  the  two  men,  standing  like  ebony  statues 
in  the  moonlight,  each  with  his  assegai  resting  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet. 

"Missy  mus'  not  go!  Ba-as  in  there!"  said  one, 
pointing  to  the  bungalow. 

Annie  stood  still  and  waited.  Not  a  sound  came  from 
the  interior  —  no  sound  of  word  or  human  language  but 
now  again  a  sharp  cough  from  the  patient  which  seemed 
to  be  answered  b^^  the  bark  of  the  jackal  from  the  neigh- 
bouring mountam. 


398  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  —  a  half -hour  seemed  to  pass. 
The  gray  dawn  crept  up  behind  the  mountain  and  threw 
a  pale  twilight  across  the  valley. 

Then  there  was  a  slight  rustle  and  the  two  Kaffirs 
straightened  themselves;  and  a  tall  figure,  bronzed  and 
bearded  and  clothed  in  rough,  hunting  costume  came  out 
of  the  hut.  Annie  stepped  forward  boldly  and  con- 
fronted him.  She  did  not  recognize  him  and  he  had  for- 
gotten her.  But  the  dream  of  the  dying  boy  came  back 
to  her  and  she  said  boldly: 

"Dion  Wycherly?" 

"  Yes!"  he  said  abruptly.  "Tell  me,  whoever  you  are, 
and  in  God's  name,  who  is  that?" 

"Your  brother.  Jack!"  she  said. 

"Dying?" 

"Yes,  I  fear  so!" 

He  passed  his  rough  hand  athwart  his  forehead,  where 
the  beads  of  perspiration  were  gathering,  and  simply 
said: 

"My  God!" 

Then,  recollecting  himself,  he  addressed  Annie: 

"And  you?  Forgive  me.  I  should  know  you,  but  I 
cannot  remember." 

"I'm  Annie  O'Farrell,"  she  said.     "  Your  old  teacher." 

He  grasped  her  hand  in  his  strong  palm.  Then,  as  if 
a  sudden  thought  struck  him,  he  said  eagerly: 

"His  wife?" 

"No!"  she  said,  and  he  thought  in  an  accent  of  dis- 
appointment, "His  nurse!" 


CHAPTER  XLI 

A  Question  and  its  Answer 

Doubting,  wondering,  puzzled,  pushing  forward  in  the 
darkness  toward  Crossfields,  then  suddenly  retracing  his 
steps,  angry  yet  pleased,  vindictive  but  forgiving,  Dick 
Duggan  made  his  way  at  last  to  the  little  "screen"  or 
shrubbery  at  the  rear  of  the  Kerins  house.  The  night 
was  pitch  dark,  but  the  whole  yard  between  the  screen 
and  the  house  was  illuminated  with  a  flood  of  light  from 
the  open  door  of  the  kitchen,  where  lamps  were  burning 
and  a  mighty  fire  was  blazing,  and  all  the  hurry  and 
bustle  of  a  great  entertainment  showed  that  this  was  the 
centre  of  the  evening's  hospitality.  Across  the  glow  of 
light  that  shone  through  the  door,  dark  figures  came  and 
went,  as  the  servants  rushed  into  the  yard  for  firewood, 
or  turf,  or  flung  out  dirty  water,  or  useless  remnants  of 
vegetables.  But  there  was  always  a  jest  and  a  laugh, 
a  tiny  echo  of  the  hilarious  merriment  that  proceeded 
within  doors. 

For  some  time  Dick  Duggan  waited  and  watched, 
growing  ever  more  angry  and  impatient,  as  he  contrasted 
his  own  loneliness  and  the  dark  and  gloomy  cabin  he  had 
left  with  all  this  brightness  and  tumultuous  rejoicing. 
Once  or  twice  the  thought  occurred  that  the  gypsy  girl 
had  made  a  fool  of  him  and  was  now  probably  laughing 
at  him  as  a  victim  of  a  cruel  joke.  But  he  argued  that 
this  was  impossible  and  that  the  girl,  altogether  inde- 
pendently of  her  fear  of  him,  could  have  no  motive 
whatsoever  for  playing  such  a  foolish  and  cruel  prank. 

At  last  he  was  about  to  go  away  and  return  to  his 
home  with  no  pleasant  feelings  in  his  heart,  when  a  slight 

399 


400  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

figure,  quite  unlike  the  sturdy  forms  of  the  servant- 
maids,  appeared  at  the  door.  He  knew  instantly  who 
it  was  and  moved  a  little  forward.  The  figure  passed 
into  the  darkness  of  the  yard,  and  very  soon  he  heard  a 
light  footfall  near  him  on  the  dry  needles  of  the  fir-trees. 
He  stood  motionless,  and  after  a  pause,  long  and  painful, 
he  heard  his  name  whispered  in  the  darkness.  He  waited 
for  a  repetition  of  it  and  then  he  stepped  forward  and 
confronted  the  girl. 

"Well!"  he  said.     "I'm  here!" 

"Dick!"  she  said.  "Is  that  you?  Then  you  got  my 
message." 

"I  was  told,"  he  said,  "that  you  wished  to  see  me.  I 
didn't  believe  it.  But  I  kem  to  know  what  you  could 
want  with  me." 

"  Not  much,"  she  said  humbly,  "  but  pace  and  for- 
giveness.    There's  no  use  in  keepin'  things  up  forever." 

"What  things?"  he  asked.  "And  who's  keepin'  'em 
up?" 

"Oh,  Dick,"  she  cried  passionately,  "you  know  well 
what  I  mane.  I  want  you  and  Ned  to  be  frinds,  and 
to  forgive  and  forget.  Sure,  'tisn't  right  nor  raysonable 
to  be  keepin'  things  up  forever." 

"Is  that  what  you  wanted  me  for?"  he  cried  passion- 
ately. "Av  it  is,  go  back  now  to  your  drinkin'  and 
dancin',  and  take  this  from  me.  That  nayther  here  nor 
hereafter,  in  life  or  in  death,  will  I  ever  forgive  the  man 
who  wronged  me  and  mine." 

"That's  a  hard  word,  Dick,"  the  girl  said  and  he  knew 
now  she  was  weeping  in  the  darkness,  "an'  a  word  you'll 
be  sore  and  sorry  for  some  day.  I  was  only  actin'  for 
the  besht.  Whin  I  see  all  the  naybors  gethered  here 
and  injyin'  theirselves,  and  whin  I  looked  across  the 
fields  from  the  barn  and  seen  your  house  dark  and  lone- 
some, I  sed  to  myself.  That's  not  right !  We  must  share 
with  the  naybors  whatever  the  Good  God  has  given  us!" 

"And  do  you  think,  Martha  Sullivan,"  said  the  thick, 
husky  voice,   deliberately  ignoring  her  married  name, 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  401 

"that  I  and  mine  are  thramps  and  beggars,  like  thim 
gypsies  down  at  the  ould  castle,  that  we  should  be  be- 
houlden  to  you  and  Kerins  for  a  male  of  vittles?  Begor, 
ma'am,  you  have  become  high  and  mighty  in  your  notions, 
since  you  come  up  from  the  sayside,  where  manny  a  time 
I  seen  you  with  a  kish  of  say-weed  on  your  back,  and  glad 
to  have  praties  and  cockles  for  your  dinner.  Go  back 
now  to  your  party  and  shtop  there;  an'  if  you  have  any 
charity  to  bestow,  give  it  to  thim  as  wants  it.  The 
Duggans,  plase  God,  have  enough  and  to  waste  for  the 
rest  of  their  lives." 

"I  see  there's  no  good  in  talkin'  to  you,  Dick,"  the  girl 
replied.  "The  black  hatred  is  in  your  heart  —  and  all 
for  nothin'." 

"For  nothin'?"  he  echoed,  in  a  sudden  blaze  of  anger. 
"Is  it  nothin'  that  every  morning  I  rise,  I  must  see  the 
land  that  should  be  mine  and  the  crops  that  should  be 
mine  and  the  cattle  that  should  be  mine  in  the  hands  of 
a  black  stranger?  Is  that  nothin'?  Is  it  nothin',  whin 
I  stepped  over  the  ditch  and  was  harmin'  nobody  to  be 
tould  to  get  out  of  that  or  that  he'd  blow  me,  body  and 
sowl,  into  hell?  Is  it  nothin'  that  at  every  fair,  market, 
and  cross  it  is  thrun  in  my  face  that  I've  shown  the  white 
feather  and  that  I'm  more  afeard  of  Kerins's  shooting- 
irons  than  of  Almighty  God?  And  is  it  nothin',"  he 
said,  lowering  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  in  which  were 
mingled  affection  and  fury,  "that  he  tuk  from  me  the 
girl  of  my  heart,  for  whom  I'd  open  my  veins  and  shed 
the  last  dhrop  of  my  blood?" 

The  words  touched  her  deeply,  as  she  heard  the  despair 
of  the  man  uttered  there  in  the  darkness.  But  she  had 
to  defend  herself  and  she  said : 

"But  there  was  never  a  hand  and  word  betune  us, 
Dick,  nor  any  promise;  and  sure,  it  wasn't  your  fault, 
but  you  couldn't  expect  me  to  grow  up  into  a  withered 
ould  woman,  like  Annie  Reilly  and  Bride  Gallagher!" 

"No-o-o!"  he  said,  prolonging  the  word,  as  if  he  were 
doubtful  whether  he  ought  make  the  admission,  "an' 
27 


402  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

I'm  not  faultin'  you,  though  you  might  have  spoke  to 
me  about  it.  I'd  have  released  you,  av  I  saw  'twas  for 
your  good.  But  how  can  I  forgive  the  man  that  first 
tuk  away  from  me  the  place  I  wanted  to  bring  you,  and 
then  tuk  you  from  me  in  the  bargain?" 

"But  sure  what's  inded  can't  be  minded,  Dick,"  said 
the  girl,  "an'  now  can't  you  make  up  with  Ned  Kerins 
an'  let  us  be  frinds  and  naybors?" 

"Av  I  was  as  false  as  him,  I'd  say  so,"  said  Dick  sul- 
lenly, "and  then  bide  my  time.  But,  because  I'm  a 
true  man,  I'll  not  lie  to  you  nor  God,  I've  an  account  to 
settle  with  the  man  you  call  your  husband,  an'  whin  it 
is  settled,  there'll  be  no  arrares." 

She  heard  his  footsteps  retreating  across  the  dry  grass 
and  leaves;  she  heard  him  leaping  over  the  ditch  and  the 
soft  thud  of  his  feet,  as  he  descended  into  the  ploughed 
field,  but  she  stood  still,  irresolute  and  frightened.  A  low 
laugh  in  the  shrubbery  woke  her  up  to  a  sense  of  her 
position,  and,  shaking  off  the  stupor  in  which  her  inter- 
view with  Dick  Duggan  had  left  her,  she  returned,  silent 
and  thoughtful,  to  the  house. 

If  there  was  one  subject  more  frequently  debated  than 
another  during  these  revels  at  Crossfields,  it  was  the 
sudden  departure  of  Annie  O'Farrell  with  young  Wycherly 
for  South  Africa.  To  their  unsophisticated  minds  —  un- 
sophisticated in  the  sense  that  they  knew  nothing  of 
modern  life,  although  they  had  a  strong  bias  toward 
regarding  things  in  an  unfavourable  light  —  it  was  nothing 
short  of  a  grave  scandal.  "Elopement"  means  dreadful 
things  to  an  Irish  congregation.  It  means  certain  de- 
nunciation both  from  the  parish  priest  and  from  the 
bishop  in  his  triennial  visitation.  It  means  the  possi- 
bility of  excommunication.  The  dread  of  the  thing  has 
come  down  from  the  times  not  very  remote,  when  abduc- 
tion was  a  capital  offence  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  and  of 
the  Church. 

That  there  could  be  any  mitigation,  or  reason  for  what 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  403 

they  deemed  the  offence,  never  dawned  upon  them,  for 
they  could  not  believe  that  any  young  lady  could  sacri- 
fice herself  at  the  call  of  duty,  to  nurse,  or  help,  or  com- 
fort what  they  were  pleased  to  call  "  a  dying  kinat."  ^ 

Hence  it  was  warmly  debated  whether  the  parish  priest, 
with  Roman  or  Spartan  determination,  would  stigmatize 
the  offence  on  the  following  Sunday  in  his  wonted  manner. 
Or  would  he  depute  his  curate  to  do  so,  if  it  were  too 
much  for  his  own  feelings?  Not  one,  who  knew  his  char- 
acter, dreamt  for  a  moment  that  he  would  allow  the  offence 
to  pass  unrebuked. 

"Let  us  see  now,"  said  Dick  Duggan  savagely,  "what 
he'll  do.  He  has  spared  no  one  for  twenty  years.  Let 
us  see  now  will  he  spare  his  own  flesh  and  blood.  If  it 
was  wrong  in  poor  crachures,  who  had  nayther  sinse  nor 
ejucation,  it  was  doubly  wrong  in  her  who  had  both." 

The  thought  that  was  agitating  the  parish  was  also 
the  thought  which  was  uppermost  in  the  mind  of  the 
bereaved  and  desolate  man.  Whatever  excuses  he  might 
make  for  the  action  taken  by  Annie  O'Farrell  and  what- 
ever might  be  its  justification  in  her  own  circle,  there 
could  be  no  doubt  it  was  a  subject  of  much  talk  and  a 
source  of  much  disedification  amongst  his  own  primitive 
people.  And  how  could  he  pass  it  over?  On  the  other 
hand,  how  could  he  stand  on  the  altar  steps  and  profess 
his  own  shame  and  the  ignominy  attached  to  the  conduct 
of  his  niece?  He  never  knew  till  then  how  deeply  he 
was  attached  to  her,  how  much  he  appreciated  her  talents, 
her  beauty,  her  singular  gifts  of  mind  and  person.  And 
he  never  knew  till  then  how  proud  he  was  of  her,  and  how 
much  she  reflected  upon  him  all  those  various  excellences 
that  seemed  to  have  grown  with  her  growth  and  strength- 
ened with  her  strength.  And  now  he  was  face  to  face 
with  an  ordeal  that  seemed  beyond  human  endurance 
to  encounter.  He  had  to  drag  her  name  and  his  own 
pride  in  the  dust  before  a  people,  some  of  whom,  at  least, 

'"Gnat"  —  a  term  of  contempt. 


404  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

would  rejoice  at  his  humiliation  and  mock  at  his  sorrow. 
In  a  week  he  seemed  to  have  aged  ten  years;  and  when 
on  Saturday  afternoon,  Henry  Listen  came  down  to 
recite  the  Office  and  take  directions  for  the  coming  week, 
he  found  a  stooped  and  wrecked  man  bent  in  despair 
over  the  wintry  fire. 

The  good  young  curate  suggested  that  it  would  be 
impossible  for  his  pastor  to  celebrate  his  Mass  in  the  morn- 
ing, he  was  so  broken  and  wretched;  and  he  requested 
permission  to  summon  some  neighbouring  priest  to  supply 
the  first  Mass.  But  the  old  man  wouldn't  listen  to  it. 
He  was  never  better  in  his  life.  He  would  drive  over  as 
usual  and  say  the  Mass  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  and  preach 
as  usual  to  his  congregation. 

But  in  the  evening  a  hurried  message  was  sent  up  to 
the  young  priest  that  the  pastor  would  abide  by  his 
advice,  and  that  he  would  be  obliged  if,  even  at  that  late 
hour,  he  would  invite  some  other  priest  to  drive  over 
and  celebrate  in  the  morning.  The  depression  of  the 
evening  and  the  loneliness  of  his  situation  broke  down 
his  iron  resolution;  and  for  the  first  time  in  a  quarter  of 
a  century  a  strange  priest  stood  at  the  altar  in  Doon- 
varragh.  With  a  feeling  akin  to  defeat  the  old  priest 
said  Mass  in  his  private  oratory.  He  knew  what  was 
expected  and  what  would  be  said. 

"No  matter!"  he  repeated  to  himself.  "Next  Sunday 
I  shall  be  there  and  they  will  hear  what  I  have  to  say!" 

During  the  week  many  and  various  were  the  comments 
that  were  made.  The  great  bulk  of  the  people  were 
delighted  that  they  were  spared  the  agony  of  witnessing 
their  pastor's  self-humiliation;  and  they  hoped  now  that 
the  thing  was  over  forever.  The  malcontents  were 
delighted.  He  had  shown  the  white  feather.  He  never 
spared  others.     He  spared  his  own  and  he  spared  himself. 

Dick  Duggan  was  jubilant.  He  knew,  he  said,  all 
along  how  it  would  be.  The  sharp  tongue  was  blunted 
and  the  angry  voice  was  stilled,  when  the  question  touched 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  405 

himself.  In  the  tap-room  of  the  pubHc  house,  Dick  waxed 
eloquent  on  the  misdemeanour  of  which  Annie  O'Farrell 
had  been  guilty,  and  he  scornfully  refuted  every  argu- 
ment in  her  favour.  He  became  a  fierce  zealot  of  virtue 
—  an  indignant  defender  of  morals  —  a  fanatical  oppo- 
nent of  everything  that  could  offend  the  sacred  proprie- 
ties of  life. 

"If  thim  in  high  places,"  he  said,  "are  allowed  to 
break  the  law  of  God  an'  no  wan  can  open  their  lips  agin 
thim,  we  might  as  well  all  become  paygans  and  haythens." 

He  repeated  the  same  thing  in  the  family  circle  several 
times  that  week  under  the  Dutch  courage  which  drink 
gave  him.  But  at  last  he  got  the  fierce  answer  from  his 
mother,  who  was  heart-broken  at  the  very  idea  of  her 
priest's  sorrow  and  shame: 

"Divil  a  much  throuble  you'd  have,  and  the  likes  of 
you,  in  becoming  paygans  and  haythens.  You  needn't 
turn  your  coats  inside  out,  begor.  For  it  is  writ  in  big 
letters  over  every  inch  of  ye.  Go  down  now  to  the 
'Cross,'  and  shpake  to  your  aiquals  in  blagarding;  but, 
whilst  yere  undher  this  roof,  keep  a  civil  tongue  in  yere 
head." 

And  Dick  took  his  mother's  advice  literally.  The 
tap-room  was  his  theatre,  his  pulpit  and  bench,  where 
to  a  plentiful  crop  of  ne'er-do-wells  and  tipplers  like 
himself,  he  could  expound,  without  contradiction,  his 
views  on  politics  and  religion  and  every  subject  that 
came  within  the  bounds  of  human  knowledge. 

He  found  the  place  so  pleasant,  in  contrast  with  his 
home,  that  he  spent  the  night  there  with  boon  companions, 
and  between  speechifying  and  scandal-mongering  and 
card-playing,  the  time  passed  pleasantly  by,  so  that 
when  Dick  woke  up  about  one  o'clock  next  day,  he 
hadn't  the  slightest  recollection  of  the  events  of  the  pre- 
vious night.  But  his  throat  was  very  dry,  almost  burn- 
ing, and  he  asked  in  a  weak  and  tremulous  voice  for  a 
"hair  of  the  dog  that  bit  him."  It  braced  him  up  a 
little  and  then,  with  some  difficulty,  he  swallowed  a  cup 


406  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

of  tea  and  ate  an  egg.  He  would  now  have  moved  home- 
ward, having  had  quite  enough  eloquence  and  drink  for  a 
month,  but  there  had  been  a  "big  fair"  that  day  at  the 

market-town  of  M six  or  seven  miles  away,  and  in 

the  afternoon  the  farmers  from  that  part  of  the  country 
were  returning  home  and,  of  course,  their  horses  would 
persist  in  stopping  at  "  the  Cross."  It  was  a  peculiarity 
in  those  animals,  and  it  was  universal.  No  horse  could 
pass  the  house  without  stopping  at  least  until  his  owner 
could  alight  and  ask  the  time  of  day. 

Hence  Dick  Duggan,  meeting  so  many  ''frinds,"  had 
to  take  a  "thrate"  and  another  and  another,  under 
penalty  of  giving  deadly  offence,  until  his  old  hilarity 
and  pugnaciousness  came  back  to  him  and  the  depression 
and  blue  devils  of  the  morning  had  vanished.  Hence  he 
became  eloquent  again  on  the  pusillanimity  and  cowardice 
of  his  pastor;  and,  when  he  was  rallied,  because  he  was  not 
invited  to  the  "house-warming"  at  Kerins's,  his  face  grew 
dark  and  sullen  and  he  muttered  something  about  a 
Banshee  and  a  Caoine  again. 

"You  missed  it,  Dick,"  said  a  jovial  farmer,  who  was 
reputed  to  be  a  grand  hand  at  making  a  joke  and  a  poor 
hand  at  receiving  one,  "  you  missed  it.  There  never  was 
such  ceol^  in  the  country  before.  All  we  wanted  was  to 
see  you  dancin'  with  the  young  missus." 

Dick  Duggan  half-stifled  an  oath  and  cried: 

"No  more  of  that,  Goggin!" 

But  Goggin  persisted. 

"I  never  saw  a  happier  man  than  Ned  Kerins,"  he 
said.  "An'  sure  he  ought  to  be.  Thade  SuUivan  tould 
me  he  walked  the  farm  twice,  and  begor,  if  you  threw 
in  a  needle,  it  would  grow  into  a  crowbar,  so  deep  is  the 
sile.  And,  sure,  the  whole  counthry  gives  it  up  to  Martha 
Sullivan  for  beauty.  She'd  dance  on  eggs  and  wouldn't 
break  them." 

"There  may  be  another  dance  soon,"  said  Dick,  seeing 
all  eyes  turned  upon  him  with  a  smile  of  pitying  contempt 
>  Fun,  amusement. 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  407 

as  the  victim  of  circumstances.     "There  may  be  another 
dance  soon,  and  the  feet  won't  touch  the  ground  ayther." 

"Take  care  of  the  shooting-irons,  Dick,"  said  Goggin, 
going  away.  "He'd  let  dayHght  into  you  as  soon  as 
he'd  say:  Thrapshticks!" 

Dick  looked  after  him  with  bleared  and  bloodshot 
eyes.  Then,  continuing  the  fun,  another  farmer  said 
maliciously : 

"There's  a  lot  of  talk  about  the  parish  priesht's  niece 
and  Wycherly,  and  about  his  showing  the  white  feather 
yesterday." 

"There'll  be  more!"  said  Dick  sullenly. 

"'Tis  a  pity  he'd  be  left  off  so  aisy,"  said  the  man, 
winking  at  the  crowd.  "Only  that  I  belongs  to  another 
part  of  the  parish,  I'd  think  nothin'  of  calling  him  to 
ordher  meself." 

"There's  no  wan  here  to  do  it,"  said  a  wag,  "but  Dick. 
He's  the  only  wan  that  has  spunk  in  him." 

"Yes!  But  'tisn't  every  wan  would  face  the  ould  lion 
in  his  den,"  said  the  other. 

Dick  was  looking  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  February 
evening,  which  had  closed  in  gloomy  and  miserable;  but 
the  evil  words  were  rankling  in  his  heart.  His  pride  had 
been  stung  sorely  by  the  allusions  to  the  "  house-warming" 
and  his  own  conspicuous,  if  expected,  absence.  And  now 
the  same  evil  pride  was  stimulated  by  the  lying  flattery 
of  his  tempters.  Was  he  the  only  man  in  the  parish  who 
would  dare  face  the  parish  priest?  So  it  was  thought, 
and  so  it  was  expected.  Half-drunk  and  wholly  mad- 
dened, he  swiftly  made  up  his  mind. 

"Give  me  another  half-wan!"  he  said  to  the  girl  at  the 
counter. 

"You've  had  enough,  Dick,"  said  the  girl  compassion- 
ately. "  You  ought  go  home.  Remember,  you  are  out 
since  yesterday." 

"Give  it  me!"  he  said  fiercely.     "I've  work  to  do!" 
The  girl  filled  his  glass  half-full  of  water.     He  tossed 
it  off  in  one  gulp  and  went  out. 


408  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

The  old  pastor,  the  learned  theologian,  was  sunk  in 
his  arm-chair  near  the  winter's  fire.  Humbled,  chastened, 
weary  of  the  world,  anxious  for  his  final  rest,  he  had  tried 
to  banish  the  spectres  of  troublesome  thoughts  by  fixing 
his  mind  on  some  subtle  theological  question,  which  ad- 
mitted diversity  of  opinion  and  where  he  could  balance 
with  that  dialectical  skill,  of  which  he  was  so  justly  proud, 
the  decisions  of  different  schools.  But  it  was  in  vain. 
The  everpresent  personal  troubles  would  obtrude  them- 
selves and  push  ofT  the  stage  of  thought  the  less  trouble- 
some intruders.  And  then  would  commence  again  the 
anguish  and  the  sorrow,  the  anger  and  the  bitterness, 
which  he  vainly  tried  to  exorcise  forever. 

A  loud  single  knock  startled  him  a  httle,  as  it  echoed 
through  the  house. 

"I'm  in  no  mood  for  visitors,"  he  thought.  "They 
ought  to  know  that  well  enough  now." 

And  the  old  housekeeper,  ageing  with  her  master,  opened 
the  door,  and,  closing  it  carefully  after  her,  said: 

"This  is  Duggan,  your  reverence  —  Dick  Duggan;  an' 
he's  the  worse  for  drink." 

"Tell  him  I  can't  see  him  now,"  said  the  priest  peremp- 
torily. 

The  woman  took  the  message  and  soon  returned, 
saying: 

"  He  says  he  must  see  your  reverence.  He  has  a  ques- 
tion to  ask  you!" 

And  the  priest  rose  up,  felt  his  way  along  the  edge  of 
the  table,  and  went  into  the  hall. 

"  You  wish  to  see  me,"  he  said,  peering  into  the  darkness, 
"what  do  you  want?" 

He  was  quite  close  to  the  thickset,  wiry  form  of  the 
man  over  whom  he  towered,  head  and  shoulders. 

"I  want  to  ax  your  reverence  wan  question,  an'  only 
wan,"  said  Dick  thickly,  as  he  looked  into  the  black 
glasses  that  glared  down  upon  him. 

"Well?     Be  quick  about  it,"  said  the  priest. 

"I  want  to  ax  your  reverence,"  said  Dick,  looking 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  409 

around  him  in  the  effort  to  frame  his  question,  ''what 
was  the  rayson  you  didn't  shpake  of  your  niece  off 
av  the  althar  yesterday  for  running  away  wid  young 
Wycherly  —  " 

He  stopped,  for  the  terrible  grip  of  the  old  man  was 
on  his  throat  in  an  instant  and  he  could  only  feebly 
gurgle  out: 

"  Le'  me  go !     You're  chokin'  me !     What  did  I  say?  " 

"  You  blackguard,"  said  the  priest,  pushing  him  against 
the  door  of  the  other  room  and  holding  him  there,  "  how 
dare  you  come  into  the  house  of  an  old  man  like  me  to 
insult  me?" 

"I'm  only  sayin'  what  everybody  in  the  parish  do  be 
sayin',"  said  Dick,  frantically  struggling  to  unloose  the 
iron  grip.  "Unhand  me!  You're  chokin'  me,  or  be  this 
and  be  that  —  " 

Here,  in  fury  or  anger  or  terror,  he  struck  out  wildly 
and  smote  the  face  of  the  priest  between  the  eyes,  smashing 
the  dark  glasses.  The  next  moment,  as  happened  so 
many  years  ago,  he  felt  himself  caught  up  and  swung 
round  and  round  the  hall  and  then,  with  the  impetus 
thus  gained,  cast  out  into  the  darkness  with  terrible 
violence.  He  reeled  and  staggered  forward  a  few  paces. 
Then  fell  face  downward  on  the  sharp  gravel.  He  heard 
the  hall-door  slammed  with  violence  and  the  lock  shot 
and  the  rattle  of  a  heavy  chain.  And  he  remembered 
no  more. 

When  he  awoke  to  consciousness  and  recalled  what 
had  happened,  his  only  thought  was  one  of  fearful  and 
overwhelming  remorse.  He  had  struck  a  priest!  It  was 
the  culmination  of  his  life  of  anger  and  hatred,  and  he 
woke  up  as  a  man  wakes  from  the  horrible  delirium  of 
fever  and  sees  things  for  the  first  time  in  all  their  naked 
magnitude.  Men  feel  thus  in  the  pursuit  of  every  vice. 
They  rush  forward  madly,  heedlessly,  deliriously,  until 
some  crime  is  consummated,  and  then  there  is  a  sudden 
and  awful  consciousness  that  this  was  only  the  terminus 


410  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

—  the  unlooked-for,  but  inevitable  terminus  of  their  life 
of  guilt. 

He  rose  up  and,  finding  something  cold  trickling  down 
his  forehead  and  blinding  his  eyes,  he  put  up  his  hand 
and  instantly  knew  by  the  clammy  feel  that  it  was  blood. 
He  brushed  it  aside,  smearing  his  face  all  over  with  the 
ghastly  thing.  He  then  looked  wistfully  towards  the 
house,  hoping  that  a  light  might  be  shining  to  beckon 
him  back  to  forgiveness.  But  no !  AH  was  dark  and  the 
outline  of  the  presbytery  looked  dismal  and  solemn 
against  the  background  of  the  night.  Then  he  remem- 
bered the  slamming  of  the  door,  the  shooting  of  the  bolt, 
and  the  rattling  of  the  chain. 

"  May  God  in  heaven  forgive  me ! "  he  thought.  "  There 
is  no  longer  pardon  amongst  men!" 

He  then  began  to  wonder  what  time  of  night  it  was; 
but  he  had  no  guide.  He  remembered  it  was  about 
half-past  six  when  he  left  the  public-house,  and  it  must 
have  been  seven  o'clock  when  he  stood  in  the  priest's 
hall.  And  then  he  had  a  faint  idea  that  when  the  dining- 
room  was  opened  he  had  heard  amid  his  drunken  excite- 
ment the  clock  chiming  'seven'  on  the  mantelpiece. 
But  how  long  ago  was  that,  he  couldn't  tell.  He  had 
no  idea  of  how  long  he  lay  prostrate  and  insensible  on 
the  gravelled  walk. 

He  made  his  way  slowly  homeward  in  the  darkening 
night.  He  passed  the  public-house  on  the  way.  It  was 
shut.  Therefore,  it  was  late.  He  pushed  toward  home 
more  rapidly  and  began  at  last  to  mount  the  hill,  all  the 
time  debating  in  a  stupid,  dazed  manner  whether  he 
would  make  a  clear  confession  of  guilt  at  home.  Then 
he  decided  that  that  wouldn't  do.  It  would  draw  upon 
him  the  fierce  reproaches  of  his  mother  without  a  chance 
of  forgiveness.  The  best  thing  to  do  now  was  to  get 
into  the  byre  where  the  cattle  were;  to  wash  himself  free 
of  his  blood-stains;  to  see  if  the  family  had  yet  retired 
to  rest,  and  be  guided  by  that.  He  turned  from  the 
main  road  into  the  boreen  or  bypath  that  led  to  his  father's 


5: 


A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER  411 

house,  walking  slowly  and  meditatively.  His  mind  now 
was  fully  made  up  about  his  guilt  and  how  he  was  to 
purge  himself  of  it.  He  would  speak  to  no  man  of  what 
he  had  done,  and  he  knew  well  that  the  priest  would  never 
breathe  it.  Then,  the  following  Sunday,  just  after  the 
sermon,  he,  Dick  Duggan,  would  step  forward  from  the 
midst  of  the  congregation  and  make  a  confession  of  his 
guilt  to  the  world,  no  matter  if  he  were  excommuni- 
cated afterwards.  He  had  some  dim  notion  that  to  strike 
a  priest  was  punished  with  excommunication,  but  he  had 
never  heard  of  the  i-pso  facto,  etc.  But  he  heeded  nothing 
now.  He  would  confess  his  guilt  and  abide  by  his  pun- 
ishment. 

He  entered  the  stable-yard.  All  was  still.  No  light 
burned  in  the  house.  The  place  was  silent  and  dark  as 
death.  He  turned  into  the  byre  and  groped  round  for 
the  tub  of  water  which  he  knew  was  always  left  there. 
He  found  it,  took  off  his  coat,  and  was  stooping  to  dash 
the  water  in  his  face  when  suddenly  the  light  of  a  lantern 
was  flashed  on  him  and  he  was  seized  roughly  from 
behind.  He  shouted  and  struggled  until  he  saw  two 
constables  in  front  ready  to  give  assistance. 

"  I  arrest  you  on  a  charge  of  wilful  murder  in  the  name 
of  the  Queen,"  said  the  sergeant.  "  Now  don't  make  any 
noise,  but  go  quietly;  and  remember  every  word  you  say 
will  be  quoted  against  you." 

As  he  felt  the  steel  handcuffs  slipped  on  his  wrists  and 
heard  the  click  of  the  lock,  he  said: 

"My  God!     Did  I  kill  him? " 

"Well,  he's  dead!"  said  the  sergeant. 

"I  suppose  I'll  swing  for  it,  but  I  richly  deserve  it. 
Can  I  see  my  mother  for  a  minute?" 

"Better  not!"  said  the  officer.  "They're  all  in  bed, 
and  it  would  do  no  good." 

He  submitted  quietly  and  was  led  along,  seeing  but 
the  hand  of  God  in  his  misfortune  and  overwhelmed  by 
the  dreadful  thought  that  he  had  committed  a  crime  never 
heard  of  before  in  Ireland  —  the  murder  of  a  priest. 


412  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

As  they  moved  onward  in  the  dark,  he  heard  one  of 
the  oflBcers  speak  of  Ned  Kerins  and  a  pike  and  his  body- 
taken  to  the  pubUc-house  for  an  inquest.  He  stopped 
suddenly  and  cried  to  the  poUce  to  stop. 

"Shtop,"  said  he,  while  the  perspiration  rolled  down 
his  face,  "  shtop,  as  ye  value  an  immortal  sowl." 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter?  "  said  the  sergeant. 

"You  said  now  he  was  dead.  Did  you  mane  the 
parish  priesht?  or  some  wan  else?" 

"I  mean  Ned  Kerins,  who  was  stabbed  to  death  on 

the   M road    between    six   and   seven   o'clock   this 

evening." 

"Ned  Kerins  —  stabbed!  Oh!  is  that  all?"  said  Dick, 
as  he  felt  an  overwhelming  weight  lifted  from  his  con- 
science. 

"That's  all,  and  quite  enough  for  you,  I  should  say," 
replied  the  officer.  "Now  say  no  more,  if  you  have 
sense." 


CHAPTER  XLII 

A  Red  Sunset 

It  was  an  hour  before  the  time  when  Dick  Duggan  left 
the  pubhc-house  to  pay  his  ill-fated  visit  to  the  parish 
priest,  that  Pete  the  Gypsy  tackled  his  pony  to  the  cart, 
which  was  already  loaded  with  six  bales  of  what  pur- 
ported to  be  compressed  hay  carefully  packed  and  roped 
for  transmission  to  the  City. 

"  It  is  the  last?"  said  the  old  gypsy  woman,  his  mother, 
coming  out  of  the  castle  to  see.  "  You're  sure  you're 
leaving  nothing  behind?" 

"Nothing,  little  mother,"  said  Pete  gaily.  "It  is  the 
last  bale,  which  we  have  haled  up  from  the  cave." 

"Then  I'm  glad  of  it,"  she  said.  "It  was  an  ill-work 
from  the  beginning,  especially  as  you  had  a  coward  for 
comrade." 

"That's  true,  little  mother,"  he  replied.  "If  he  had 
been  one  of  our  own  we  might  have  carried  on  the  busi- 
ness forever." 

"Never  mind,"  she  said.  "Get  back,  little  father,  as 
quick  as  possible.  I'm  always  afraid  you'll  fall  into  the 
hands  of  the  engroes." 

He  laughed. 

"That's  for  fools,"  he  said.  "Never  fear  for  me. 
Keep  the  fire  lighting  and  the  pot  boiling.  I'll  be  hungry 
enough  when  I  return." 

Pete  had  always  managed  to  get  his  smuggled  cargoes 

into  the  station  at  M just  as  the  up  goods  train  was 

due,  so  that  there  should  be  no  time  for  inquisitive  porters 
or  detectives  to  show  any  unusual  curiosity  about  his 
property.     If  he  were  early,  he  generally  loitered  outside 

413 


414  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

the  gates  and  crept  in  in  time  to  push  his  packages  into 
the  van  as  the  train  sped  forward. 

This  evening  he  was  slightly  late,  and  when  he  got  out 
of  the  boreen  and  on  the  crest  of  the  hill,  he  whipped  the 
pony  smartly  forwards.  Strange  to  say,  however,  this 
night  he  took  a  slightly  circuitous  route  along  the  road 
that  skirted  Crossfields  and  farther  down  by  the  farm 
occupied  by  the  Duggans.  And,  as  he  passed  one  field 
in  the  latter  farm,  he  noticed  a  pike  hanging  down  from 
a  half-cut  rick  of  hay,  and  with  the  instincts  of  his  tribe 
he  instantly  appropriated  it,  laying  it  athwart  the  large 
cubes  which  were  compressed  with  iron  clamps.  He 
chuckled  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  Dick's  profanity 
when  he  discovered  in  the  morning  that  his  pike  was 
gone,  and  he  then  pushed  rapidly  forward.  His  object  in 
taking  the  circuitous  route  was  to  avoid  the  farmers  who 
might  be  coming  home  late  from  the  fair  and  who,  in 
the  usual  spirit  of  inquisitiveness,  might  put  awkward 
questions.  On  these  journeys  Pete  wished  for  a  solitary 
road  and  no  company. 

He  was  about  two  miles  from  the  town  when,  on  turn- 
ing a  bend  in  the  road,  he  nearly  drove  into  the  gig  or 
tax-cart  on  which  Ned  Kerins  was  driving  home  from  the 
fair.  After  the  usual  complimentary  curses  that  are 
elicited  on  such  an  occasion,  Pete  was  passing  on,  but 
Ned  Kerins  was  in  a  more  sympathetic  mood.  He  had 
sold  some  cattle  early  in  the  morning  and  bought  calves 
which  he  had  forwarded  to  his  farm  by  his  servant.  And 
he  had  then  remained,  meeting  friends,  receiving  con- 
gratulations on  his  marriage,  and  passing  from  public- 
house  to  public-house,  where,  however,  he  was  judicious 
enough  to  dispense  many  "thrates"  and  take  but  few. 
He  was  quite  sober,  therefore,  but  somewhat  elated  by 
his  success  in  business  at  the  fair  and  all  the  compli- 
mentary things  that  were  said  about  his  marriage; 
and,  as  the  evening  was  long  for  him,  he  thought  he 
would  like  to  delay  the  gypsy  with  a  little  kindly  con- 
versation. 


A  RED  SUNSET  415 

Pete,  however,  was  impatient  and  anxious  about  his 
cargo. 

"Glad  to  hear  that  you  had  such  a  good  fair,  Mr. 
Kerins,"  he  said,  pushing  on  his  pony.  "Well,  good 
night.     I  must  be  going." 

"Don't  be  in  such  a  hurry,  Pete,"  said  the  farmer, 
blocking  the  road.     "The  gangers  aren't  out  to-night." 

"The  gangers?  What  gangers?"  said  Pete,  angry  at 
the  allusion. 

"  Oh,  what  gangers?  "  said  Kerins  mockingly.  "  Come 
now,  Pete,  don't  you  know  that  every  man,  woman, 
and  child  in  the  parish  is  aware  of  your  trade?  And 
sure  no  one  begrudges  it  to  you." 

"I  think,  Mr.  Kerins,"  said  Pete  sternly,  "the 
sooner  you  get  back  to  your  wife's  company,  the  better 
for  you  and  her.  Her  old  spark  might  be  hanging 
around." 

He  again  tried  to  get  forward,  but  Kerins  was  now 
furious  at  the  allusion  and  savagely  demanded  an  ex- 
planation. 

Pete  laughed  and  threw  out  obscurer  hints.  Then  the 
farmer,  with  an  affectation  of  laughter,  turned  back  the 
joke  upon  the  gypsy,  whilst  he  swung  his  heavy  whip 
ominously  along  the  floor  of  his  gig. 

"  Give  us  the  filling  of  one  pipe,  tinker,"  he  said.  "  You 
keep  the  real  thing,  I'm  tould  —  only  the  best  Caven- 
dish and  cigars.  Give  us  the  filling  of  one  pipe  —  and 
ril  pay  you." 

And  he  plunged  the  handle  of  his  whip  towards  one 
of  the  bales,  driving  it  into  the  stuff. 

The  gypsy  uttered  a  fearful  curse  and,  again  returning 
to  the  point  where  Kerins  was  most  vulnerable,  he  bade 
him  return  home  at  once. 

Whatever  was  the  poignant  word  he  used,  down  came 
the  heavy  whip  of  the  farmer  on  his  shoulders,  and  the 
next  instant  the  gypsy,  seizing  the  pike,  lunged  forward 
with  all  his  strength  and  the  sharp  edge  of  one  steel  prong 
entered  the  garments  and  the  flesh  as  easily  as  a  needle 


416  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

runs  through  a  pincushion.  Without  a  word,  the  farmer 
fell  forward  dead. 

Not  a  shadow  of  remorse  crossed  the  mind  of  the  gypsy. 
With  a  few  rapid  reflections,  he  concluded  that  his  own 
best  policy  was  to  return  home  as  speedily  as  possible. 
He  thought  of  going  first  into  town  and  notifying  the  police 
that  he  had  found  Kerins  murdered  on  thr  high  road,  but 
this  might  give  occasion  for  awkward  questionings.  He 
trusted  to  his  usual  luck  to  get  home  without  meeting 
anyone  who  would  recognize  him,  and  to  bury  his  own 
part  in  absolute  oblivion.  He  carefully  drew  the  gig  and 
horse  on  which  the  dead  man  lay  into  one  of  those  re- 
cesses where  contractors  pile  up  heaps  of  road  metalling 
for  convenience.  He  then  listened  attentively.  Not  a 
sound  came  up  along  the  road  to  the  town,  whose  lights 
were  twinkling  beneath  him.  Not  a  sound  came  along 
the  road  he  had  travelled  from  the  sea.  A  thick  black- 
ness hung  down  over  the  whole  landscape,  except  quite 
close  where  the  white  road  shone.  He  listened  once 
more.  Not  a  sound  except  the  crunching  of  the  grass, 
where  Kerins's  horse,  unconscious  of  his  fearful  burden, 
was  feeding.  The  gypsy  turned  his  pony's  head  home- 
wards and  in  an  hour  was  in  the  boreen  that  led  to  his 
house.  Here  he  paused.  He  had  not  met  a  single 
human  being  by  the  way.  The  road  was  as  solitary  as 
a  desert,  nothing  but  the  sounds  of  his  pony's  feet  awoke 
the  echoes.  He  undid  the  harness,  took  out  bale  after 
bale  of  the  smuggled  goods,  which  he  poised  for  a  moment 
on  the  top  of  the  broad  ditch  which  formed  a  rampart 
against  the  dangers  of  the  huge  chasm  that  yawned 
beneath.  Then  silently  he  dropped  bale  after  bale  into 
the  gulf,  where  it  was  broken  to  dust  in  the  fall,  and  then, 
when  all  had  disappeared,  he  took  to  smoking  and  pon- 
dering on  the  singular  thing  that  had  occurred. 

The  suddenness  and  swiftness  of  the  thing  should  have 
alarmed  him  and  made  him  reflect.  But  there  was  no 
room  for  reflection  in  the  man's  soul,  unless  when  sud- 
denly jumping  up  from  the  place  where  he  was  seated, 


A  RED  SUNSET  417 

he  remembered  with  a  pang  of  soul  and  a  curse  on  his 
lips  that  he  had  forgotten  to  rob  the  murdered  man. 

"And  he  told  me  he  had  a  splendid  price  for  his  cattle 
that  morning;  and  probably  the  notes  were  lying  within 
an  inch  of  my  hand.  I  deserve  to  be  caught  and  hanged 
for  such  bungling." 

A  light  gleaming  far  down  near  the  sea  reminded  him 
that  he  was  expected  to  supper.  And  he  accordingly 
felt  hungry  by  anticipation.  A  light  gleamed  in  one  of 
the  windows  of  Rohira  and  he  gave  a  thought  to  the  lonely 
man,  whose  race  appeared  to  be  extinguished  forever. 
He  looked  back  across  the  dark  fields  and  saw  the  lights 
in  Crossficlds,  where  the  young  widow  was  even  then 
preparing  for  the  home-coming  of  her  spouse.  But  these 
things  did  not  touch  him.  It  was  only  when  he  saw  far 
down  to  the  east  the  solitary  candle  that  broke  the  gloom 
around  the  farm  of  the  Duggans,  that  he  showed  some 
feeling,  but  it  was  that  of  the  ape  and  the  tiger. 

"The  rope  is  around  your  neck,  Dick,"  he  said,  "so 
tight  that  only  one  man  in  all  the  world  can  loose  it.  And 
he  won't,  Dick!" 

He  again  harnessed  his  pony  and  drove  leisurely  down- 
wards to  the  castle. 

"You're  late,  little  father,"  said  Judith,  as  her  son 
entered  the  room,  having  stabled  the  pony.  "Was  the 
train  late?" 

"A  little,"  he  said.  "But  I'm  hungry,  mother,  des- 
perately hungry.     What  have  you  to  eat?" 

"You'll  get  some  broiled  fish  and  potatoes,"  she  said, 
"over  there  on  the  table.  I  put  a  cloth  over  them  to 
keep  them  warm.     But  you  got  the  goods  away?" 

"Never  fear,  Httle  mother,"  he  said  impatiently,  "they 
are  now  where  the  hand  of  the  gauger  will  never  touch 
them." 

"But  the  money?"  she  said.     "Is  that  safe?" 

"Safe  as  the  Bank!"  he  said.  "They  are  in  my  power 
and  they  know  it." 

"Ha!  ha!"  said  the  old  crone.  "It  is  good  to  have 
^8 


418  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

people  in  your  power,  little  father.  Is  it  not?  It  is 
good  to  have  people  in  your  power.  For  then  you  can 
crush  them,  if  you  like!" 

"  It  is  good ! "  he  said,  with  his  mouth  full  of  food.  "  It 
is  a  good  thing  that  men  should  fear  you.  Fear  never 
changes.  Love  changes  often.  It  is  good  to  have  men 
in  your  power!" 

"What's  that  stain  on  your  right  sleeve,  little  father?" 
the  old  gypsy  said,  touching  a  dark  spot  where  a  tiny 
stream  had  trickled  down.  "Why,  'tis  blood.  You 
must  be  hurt  somewhere!" 

The  gypsy  started  up  so  violently  that  he  almost  over- 
threw the  table,  and  he  pulled  with  his  left  hand  the 
right  sleeve  toward  him.  But  he  instantly  recovered 
his  self-possession: 

"  I  brushed  past  some  dead  meat  in  the  town,"  he  said. 
"There  was  a  crowd  around  a  ballad-singer,  and  they 
pushed  him  inwards.  Ugh!  what  an  ugly  thing  is  cow's 
blood!" 

And  he  sat  down  again,  but  his  appetite  seemed  to 
have  diminished. 

"  Have  you  got  any  spirits,  mother?  "  he  said  at  length. 
"That  blood  has  given  me  quite  a  turn.     Where's  Cora?" 

"  Over  there  asleep ! "  said  the  gypsy  woman,  rising  up 
and  procuring  the  bottle  of  gin  for  her  son.  "  But,  little 
father,  was  not  the  pony  in  danger,  and  what  he  carried, 
when  you  were  pushed  away  from  him  in  the  crowd?" 

"Not  at  all!"  said  Pete,  who  was  beginning  to  think 
that  his  mother  was  more  curious  than  prudent.  "I 
left  him  for  a  moment  standing  at  the  Post  Office  whilst 
I  went  in  to  mail  something.  It  was  passing  by  I  got 
jammed  in  the  crowd  and  got  that  nasty  stain." 

"Throw  off  your  jacket,"  said  Judith,  "and  I'll  wash 
out  that  stain.     It  is  before  me  all  the  night!" 

"What  is  before  you?"  said  her  son  angrily. 

"Blood!"  she  said. 

"Blood?"  he  echoed  with  some  faint  alarm  rising  up 
within  him. 


A  RED  SUNSET  419 

"Yes,"  she  went  on,  looking  intently  at  the  fire.  "I 
have  seen  that  stain  everywhere  to-night.  I  saw  it  in 
the  sun,  when  he  was  setting,  a  dark  purple  blotch, 
although  the  day  was  dim  and  cloudy.  I  took  it  away 
in  my  eyes  then  and  it  is  before  me  everywhere.  And 
down  there  where  the  peat  and  pine  are  glowing,  I  see 
it  fall,  fall,  and  drop  into  the  ashes  and  go  out  in  a  flare 
and  a  hiss  of  horrid  steam.  See  what  a  little  thing  now 
casts  its  shadow  before  it.  You  go  into  town  on  business 
and  by  chance  rub  the  sleeve  of  your  coat  against  that 
dripping  meat,  and  lo!  it  haunts  me  all  the  evening." 

"  Keep  that  for  the  farmers  and  their  servant-girls, 
mother,"  he  replied  angrily.  "Here,  take  the  old  jacket 
and  clean  it,  or  bum  it.  It  is  not  worth  much,  and  I've 
got  my  leather  jerkin.  Perhaps  it  will  take  the  ugly 
vision  away  from  your  eyes." 

"No!  no!"  cried  the  old  dame,  handling  the  jacket 
curiously.  "  It  is  a  good  garment  yet,  and  we  are  poor, 
very  poor,  little  father.  We  cannot  afford  to  lose  such 
a  fine  garment,  such  a  handsome  garment,  such  a  costly 
garment.  And  it  is  only  a  stain,  a  little  stain,  a  tiny 
little  stain  of  oxen's  blood  —  a  mere  cow,  a  dead  cow,  a 
worthless  cow,  and  it  will  come  out  so  nice  that  no  one 
will  ever  notice  it,  or  say,  '  What  is  that  ugly  stain,  little 
Pete,  that  long  dark  stain,  little  Pete,  there  on  your  right 
arm  above  the  elbow?'" 

All  the  time  she  was  turning  over  the  almost  ragged 
jacket  in  her  hands,  studying  it  carefully,  inside  and 
outside,  whilst  her  hopeful  son  went  over  and  bent  down 
where  the  children  were  hived  together  promiscuously; 
and  Cora,  the  insolent  and  the  vigilant  Cora,  was  in  the 
midst  of  them.  She  appeared  to  be  dead  asleep,  breathing 
softly  as  an  infant,  one  brown  arm  under  her  head  and 
one  resting  softly  on  the  ragged  garments  which  formed 
the  bed-clothes.  After  a  long  and  careful  study  he  came 
back,  and  again  the  old  gypsy  challenged  him. 

"See  here,  little  father,"  she  said,  "across  the  shoulder 
is  a  cut,  not  a  deep  cut,  nor  a  severe  cut,  but  such  a  cut 


420  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

as  would  be  made  by  a  stick  or  a  whip.  It  stretches 
around  the  back,  and,  look!  where  it  leaves  a  deep  furrow 
amidst  the  thick  dust.  I  suppose  'tis  where  you  slung 
your  whip  across  your  shoulders  as  the  peasants  do,  and 
it  left  this  mark  and  cut,  not  a  deep  cut,  but  just  such 
as  would  be  made  by  a  knife  or  a  whip.  But  the  whip 
should  be  struck  deep  and  strong.  Are  you  hurt,  little 
father?     Let  me  see!" 

She  dropped  the  jacket  to  examine  the  shoulder  and 
back  of  her  son,  but  he  drew  back  and  kicked  the  ragged 
jacket  into  the  fire,  dragging  down  the  blocks  of  burning 
timber  and  stamping  them  with  his  foot  savagely. 

"There!"  he  said.  "You  make  such  a  fuss  about 
nothing.  Let  the  old  rags  bum  now.  They  are  only 
fit  for  burning,  and  you,  good  mother,  are  spared  the 
trouble  of  washing.  Good  night!  and  be  not  troubled 
in  your  dreams.     The  sky  will  not  be  red  to-morrow!" 

He  waited  until  he  saw  the  last  rag  in  the  jacket  shrivel 
up  and  consume  in  the  flame,  even  to  the  horn  buttons. 
Then  he  kicked  the  red  ashes  to  and  fro  and  went  whist- 
ling to  bed. 

The  old  gypsy  remained  crouched  over  the  extinguished 
fire  for  at  least  an  hour,  wondering,  dreaming,  guessing, 
surmising. 

She  was  roused  by  a  light  hand  laid  on  her  shoulder 
in  the  darkness,  and  the  girl,  Cora,  whispered  in  her  ear: 

"There  hath  been  some  evil  thing  wrought  to-night. 
I,  too,  dreamed  it.  But  say  nothing.  It  would  not  be 
wise  to  say  anything,  good-mother!  It  would  not  be 
wise." 

The  dead  man  lay  on  his  back  on  a  narrow  table  sup- 
ported on  trestles  in  a  public-house  in  the  town  of  M . 

A  messenger  from  Rohira,  riding  posthaste  to  meet  the 
up-mail  was  nearly  flung  off  his  horse  when  he  shied  at  a 
gig  and  pony  near  the  road.  He  was  too  hurried  to  wait, 
but  he  saw  that  a  heavy  figure,  as  of  a  man  in  drink,  was 
leaning  over  the  dashboard,  almost  on  the  animal's  back. 


A  RED   SUNSET  421 

He  reported  the  matter  at  the  barracks,  and  the  mur- 
dered man  was  found  and  brought  in,  and  word  was  sent 
to  his  widow.  The  dead  man  lay  still,  the  peace  of  eter- 
nity on  his  face;  the  weapon,  which  had  let  out  his  strong 
life,  was  by  his  side.  There  was  rushing  and  weeping 
and  the  tumult  of  terror  at  Crossfields.  Far  down  in 
the  stable  at  Duggan's,  the  officers  of  the  law  were  waiting 
and  lurking  in  the  darkness  for  the  supposed  criminal. 
But  Pete,  the  gypsy,  having  destroyed  all  traces  of  his 
guilt,  slept  the  sleep  of  the  just  man,  there  in  the  old 
castle  by  the  sea. 


CHAPTER  XLin 

The  Amabele  Valley 

The  tumult  of  emotions  that  swept  the  soul  of  Dion 
Wycherly,  the  Ba-as,  the  successful  miner  and  rancher, 
on  discovering  his  brother  under  such  novel  and  unex- 
pected circumstances,  is  indescribable.  Delight  at  meet- 
ing him  again,  for  the  brothers  loved  each  other;  pain 
at  seeing  him  so  emaciated  and  wasted,  and  with  such 
little  hope  of  recovery;  wonder  and  admiration  at  the 
bravery  of  the  young  girl  who  had  sacrificed  herself  so 
nobly;  and  just  an  incipient  pang  of  pleasure  that  she 
was  not  Jack's  wife,  were  the  chief  thoughts  and  feelings 
that  swayed  his  mind  during  these  days,  which  he  spent 
there,  plotting  and  speculating  for  their  and  his  own 
future. 

The  recognition  between  the  brothers  was  most  affect- 
ing. When  Annie  O'Farrell  had  told  Dion  all  that  was 
to  be  told  about  his  brother,  even  down  to  his  dreaming, 
which  was  not  dreaming  at  all,  but  perfect  consciousness 
of  Dion's  presence,  they  decided  it  were  best  that  Jack 
should  be  told  that  his  dream  was  a  reality,  and  that 
his  brother  had  come  to  seek  and  find  him.  When  Annie 
had  prepared  the  way,  she  retired  from  the  little  hut 
where  Jack's  hammock  swung  easily,  and  Dion  entered. 

The  poor,  pale  invalid  looked  up  for  a  moment  at  the 
tall,  athletic  form  that  towered  above  him.  Then,  stretch- 
ing forth  his  bony  hand,  he  said,  while  his  eyes  filled  with 
tears : 

"I  knew  it  was  you.  I  knew  it  could  be  none  other 
than  you." 

For  some  moments  the  two  brothers  continued  to  gaze 
422 


THE  AMABELE  VALLEY  423 

at  one  another,  holding  their  hands  clasped.  Then, 
realizing  the  tremendous  contrast  between  them  —  his 
own  riotous  and  exultant  health,  and  the  sad  wreck  of 
the  young  life  that  lay  beneath  him  —  Dion  suddenly 
dropped  his  brother's  hand  and  went  over  to  examine 
some  little  photos  or  pictures  that  were  pinned  to  the 
wall.  Then,  brushing  aside  a  tear,  he  came  back  and 
seated  himself  near  the  hammock  where  his  dying  brother 
lay.     After  a  few  observations,  he  said: 

"Miss  O'Farrell  has  told  me  a  good  deal,  Jack;  but  not 
all.     You  were  in  the  same  hospital?" 

"Yes!"  said  his  brother.  "We  were  in  the  same  hos- 
pital. But  we  seldom  spoke,  beyond  the  mere  morning 
or  evening  salute.  But  she  was  watching  over  me  like 
a  sister,  and  I  didn't  know  it.  I  say,  Dion,  do  you  know 
anything  about  women?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Dion.  "I've  seen  few  here  but  a 
few  native  gins,  and  they  seem  to  be  only  one  degree  below, 
and  yet  in  another  sense  far  above  the  animal  creation." 

"Yes!  That's  what  I've  been  thinking.  But  I  have 
seen  a  good  many;  and  the  strange  thing  is,  they  don't 
know  the  awful  power  they  have  for  right  or  wrong." 

He  ceased  a  moment;  and  Dion  did  not  stop  the  moral- 
izing, although  he  wanted  to  get  at  facts. 

"But  what  I'm  coming  to  is  this,"  said  Jack,  as  if 
communing  with  himself.  "  You  meet  a  hundred  of  them 
and  they're  all  alike,  cut  according  to  the  same  pattern, 
turned  out  and  groomed  a  la  mode.  Then,  one  day,  you 
meet  another,  and  you  say  at  once,  'That's  not  a  woman. 
That's  something  more.  God  thought  a  good  deal  before 
he  made  her. ' " 

He  paused  for  a  moment.  And  then,  as  if  recalling 
something,  he  said: 

"  You  mustn't  call  her  Miss  O'Farrell  any  more,  Dion. 
You  must  call  her  Annie.     She's  our  sister." 

"She  might  be  offended,"  said  Dion  dubiously.  "It 
isn't  usual,  you  know." 

"Never  fear!"  said  Jack  confidently.     "But  call  her 


424  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Annie  —  nothing  else  —  mind !  Well,  I  was  saying,  she 
was  watching  me,  and  I  didn't  know  it.  Lord  bless  you, 
Di,  we  know  nothing.  But  one  day  she  cut  me  dead 
in  one  of  the  corridors  of  the  hospital;  and,  after  a  few 
days'  agony,  I  asked  explanations.  Afraid?  I  was  more 
afraid  of  her  than  of  Almighty  God,  or  even  old  Stani- 
hurst  himself.  Well,  I  got  the  explanations.  Then  one 
night  I  got  a  hemorrhage  on  the  streets  and  was  carried 
to  the  hospital.  Some  day  before  I  die,  I'll  tell  you  what 
occasioned  the  hemorrhage,  but  not  now  —  " 

"Jack,  you  are  not  going  to  die,"  said  his  brother 
passionately.  "  You  mustn't  die.  God  won't  take  you 
away  now  when  I  have  found  you  and  can  give  you  all 
you  want  in  this  world.  You  and  Annie  will  come  away 
with  me  from  this  infernal  hole,  and  I'll  put  you  in  that 
climate  and  place  where,  if  you  never  had  a  lung,  you'd 
grow  one.  Cheer  up,  old  man!  There  are  many  happy 
days  before  us  yet!" 

But  Jack  shook  his  head. 

"It  was  a  forlorn  hope,  Di,"  he  said;  "a  forlorn  hope 
—  my  coming  out  here.  I  know  too  much.  But  it  was 
some  gain  with  my  torn  lungs  to  get  here,  if  only  to  breathe 
a  little.     But  I  cannot  last  long,  and  I'm  not  sorry  for  it." 

To  which  Dion  could  answer  nothing. 

"I've  told  Annie  where  I'm  to  be  buried  —  high  up 
there  on  the  summit,  where  the  sun  will  strike  first  in 
the  morning  and  rest  his  last  beams  at  night  —  " 

"No,  no,  no,  no,"  said  Dion;  "you  and  Annie  must 
come  away  with  me.  It  is  not  far  —  only  a  couple  of 
hundred  miles,  and  we'll  do  it  by  easy  stages.  If  you 
don't  like  the  train,  I  can  manage  to  get  you  taken  along 
by  the  coolies,  so  that  there'll  be  no  jolting,  and  we  can 
rest  where  we  please.  I'll  talk  to  Miss  O'Farrell  about 
it,  if  you  let  me.  You  won't  die  just  yet,  Jack,  old  man! 
And,  if  you  were  to  die  in  a  few  years  or  so,  I  want 
to  put  you  where  I  can  see  your  grave  and  remember 
you." 

"That's  not  of  much  consequence,  Di,"  said  the  sick 


THE  AMABELE  VALLEY  425 

boy.  "You  are  not  going  to  remain  here  and  give  up 
Rohira  and  all  the  old  associations." 

"  But  Ned  —  you're  forgetting,  Jack.  Ned  has  Rohira. 
It  is  his  by  every  right." 

"  Ned  won't  trouble  Rohira,"  said  Jack.  "  Some  day, 
when  I'm  better,  I'll  tell  you  all.  But  when  I'm  gone 
—  well,  let  us  say  to  Heaven  —  you  and  Annie  will  go 
back  to  Ireland  and  make  everything  square  for  poor 
Pap,  before  he  dies." 

And  somehow  Dion  did  not  seem  to  think  the  project 
undesirable. 

After  some  hesitation  and  doubts  as  to  whether  the 
invalid  could  bear  a  long  journey  inland,  they  at  last 
decided  to  go.  And  as  Jack  was  impatient  and  irritable, 
he  thought  it  better  to  go  by  rail,  instead  of  being  jolted 
through  the  bush  on  the  backs  of  black  coolies.  It  meant 
two  days'  weary  travelling  in  slow  trains  under  burning 
suns  and  with  the  fine  dust  of  the  tropics  filling  every 
nook  and  crevice  of  the  carriage.  But,  thanks  to  the 
assiduity  and  skill  of  his  companion,  the  poor,  broken 
life  still  held  on  until  it  was  established  in  the  handsome 
bungalow  on  a  slope  of  the  Amabele  Valley,  where  Dion 
had  fixed  what  he  thought  was  his  permanent  home. 

Everything  that  wealth,  utilized  by  brotherly  love, 
could  do  to  contribute  to  the  comfort  of  the  patient  and 
his  nurse,  was  now  done,  for  Dion  seemed  to  rule  here  as 
a  little  prince,  who  commanded  the  allegiance  and  ser- 
vices of  white  men  and  black  in  the  region  all  around. 

And  surely,  if  there  were  a  place  on  earth  calculated 
to  win  back  to  health  and  vigour  a  life  that  was  fast  pas- 
sing awa.y,  it  would  be  the  very  spot  where  Dion  had  built, 
in  a  style  of  unusual  magnificence  for  those  parts,  a 
pavilion,  or  bungalow,  and  surrounded  it  with  every 
aspect  and  accident  of  luxury  attainable  at  such  a  dis- 
tance from  civilization.  The  house  was  very  extensive, 
though  there  was  but  one  story ;  but  it  was  so  ingeniously 
arranged  that  suites  of  apartments  seemed  to  open  in 
every  direction;  and  in  every  direction  there  were  visible 


426  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

from  the  high  French  windows,  that  opened  on  a  veranda 
gUmpses  of  mountains,  far-away  and  snow-covered 
Stormberg  or  Roggeveld  Ranges,  taking  on  themselves 
hues  that  varied  in  the  atmospheric  changes,  but  were 
always  clearly  Hmned  and  defined  in  the  pellucid  and 
crystalline  air.  Through  the  vast  vistas  of  valleys,  too, 
that  opened  up  the  avenues  of  these  mountains  were  to 
be  seen  plumage  of  palms  and  foliage  of  forests,  where 
clustered  in  the  shape  and  s'ze  of  trees  plants  that  are 
dwarfed  in  our  colder  cHmate.  And  in  the  immediate 
vicinity  of  the  house,  vast  clumps  of  pelargoniums  and 
hydrangeas  flung  out  their  burning  blossoms  to  the  sun 
and  wind,  whilst  deep  down  in  moist  shelters,  where  the 
air  was  always  laden  with  hot  vaporous  mists,  there 
grew  in  rich  but  unhealthy  profusion,  great  bulbous 
plants  of  the  amaryllidece  or  iridece  types,  luscious  and 
beautiful,  but  reminding  one  too  much  of  miasmata  and 
the  deadly  fecundity  of  marshlands  and  the  African 
Campagna.  Besides  the  natural  flora  of  these  rich 
tropical  climes,  Dion  had  gathered  into  a  conservatory 
still  rarer  specimens  of  plants  and  flowers  indigenous 
to  India  and  the  Southern  Isles;  and  through  forests 
of  imported  palms,  the  many-coloured  birds,  the  secretary, 
the  weaver,  the  bird  of  paradise,  leaped  and  swung  and 
hung;  and  underneath,  the  httle  jerboa  and  cunning 
monkeys  flashed  and  chattered,  and  mocked  the  lazy 
lizards  and  tortoises,  that  preferred  to  lie  flat  and  still 
in  the  burning  sun.  Down  along  the  vafley  a  stream 
flowed  perennially;  and  Dion  had  brought  its  waters  into 
his  gardens,  where  in  pond  and  fountain  and  basin  they 
cooled  the  atmosphere  to  sight  and  touch  and  hearing. 
Here  Dion  ensconced  his  dying  brother;  and  no  modem 
dread  of  contagion  diminished  in  the  least  measure  the 
boundless  exercise  of  fraternal  kindness  which  was  shed 
around  the  dying  boy.  And  here,  too,  by  daily  inter- 
course and  the  common  love  they  bore  the  boy,  and  by 
the  deeper  interpretation  of  one  another's  character, 
there  grew  up  between  the  great  rancher  and  miner  and 


THE  AMABELE  VALLEY  427 

the  girl,  who  had  sacrificed  so  much  at  the  call  of  charity, 
that  deep,  reverential  awe  of  each  other,  as  of  something 
divine,  that  sooner  or  later  deepens  into  a  holier  feeling, 
which  does  not  expel  the  divine  element,  but  transforms 
it  into  something  more  human.  And  Jack  saw  it  and 
rejoiced ;  and  in  his  next  letter  home,  which  Annie  wrote  for 
him,  he  put  in  a  postscript  before  he  sealed  the  envelope: 

"  I  think  it  is  all  right,  dear  old  Pap.  When  I'm  gone, 
order  Dion  home  at  once;  and  tell  him  he  must  not  travel 
alone." 

And  strange  to  say,  from  the  moment  the  idea  was 
suggested,  Dion's  thoughts  did  turn  homeward.  For 
just  as  the  savage,  however  used  to  civilization,  will, 
on  returning  to  his  tribe,  cast  off  the  garments  of  civilized 
peoples  and  refuse  to  speak  their  language,  and  clothe 
himself  again  in  the  blankets  of  savagery,  because  all 
the  time  he  had  been  dreaming  of  the  forest  and  the  wig- 
wam and  the  hunt,  so  the  civilized  man  casts  aside  the 
attractions  of  the  desert  and  the  jungle,  of  the  forest 
and  the  veldt,  because  the  mists  and  vapours  of  the  North 
come  to  him  in  his  dreams,  and  will  not  let  him  rest  in 
a  soil  that  never  gave  him  his  birthright.  And  yet,  Dion 
knew  it  would  mean  a  wrench  for  him  to  dissociate  him- 
self so  suddenly  from  all  that  he  had  prized  these  last 
few  years;  and  prized  all  the  more  because  he  had  won 
his  wealth  and  honour  by  upright  and  worthy  means. 

One  of  those  lovely  days,  which  are  spring  with  us, 
but  which  put  on  all  the  splendours  of  summer  in  tropical 
climes,  Dion  told  his  brother  how  he  had  come  to  be  a 
wealthy  rancher,  and  to  be  venerated  as  a  king  by  the 
tribes. 

"I  couldn't  get  on  with  that  brute  of  a  captain,"  he 
said,  with  savage  reminiscences  of  seamen's  brutality. 
"The  other  fellows  were  all  right,  but  he  was  a  brute.  I 
had  all  I  could  do  to  keep  my  hands  from  him.  But, 
when  we  got  to  the  Cape,  I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  I 
decamped.  And  to  prevent  arrest,  I  pushed  into  the 
country  as  far  as  I  could.     I  don't  think  the  fellow  would 


428  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

arrest  me,  if  he  could.  But  I  ran  no  chances.  I  worked 
my  way  up  through  the  interior;  and,  Jack,  old  fellow, 
'tis  hard  work  enough,  I  tell  you.  Then  I  got  on  to 
East  London,  and  pushed  into  the  interior  again.  I  was 
often  out  of  a  job,  because  I  had  to  tell  the  duffers  I  was 
a  seaman,  not  a  land-lubber;  and  they  couldn't  see  what 
a  knowledge  of  navigation  could  do  for  me  up  on  the 
sands  and  veldts  of  Cape  Colony.  But  I  pushed  on, 
sometimes  hungry,  sometimes  in  rags,  but  growing  hardy 
and  vigorous  and  athletic  —  " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  as  the  terrible  contrast  with 
the  withered  and  shrunken  form  beneath  him  in  the  ham- 
mock arrested  his  attention  and  created  some  compunc- 
tion for  his  harmless  boasting.  But  Jack,  unheeding, 
said: 

"Go  on,  Di!     It  is  getting  interesting!" 

"  Well  at  last  I  struck  oil,  though  at  first  it  was  but  a  tiny 
well.  I  got  appointed  as  manager  in  a  store  far  up  the 
country,  away  from  cities  and  towns.     The  fellows  that 

ran  it  were  a  lot  of  d d  sharpers;  and,  as  they  had  only 

the  poor  natives  to  deal  with,  they  shaved  them  right  and 
left.  They  had  a  lot  of  old  Brummagem  stuffs  sent  out, 
not  worth  the  carriage  paid  on  them;  but  they  sold,  along 
with  trinkets,  penknives,  mechanical  dolls,  Jews'-harps, 
to  the  poor  natives,  for  what,  do  you  think?" 

Jack  couldn't  guess.  He  didn't  know  where  the  natives 
could  get  money.     He  at  last  struck  on  diamonds. 

"Yes,  you  Solomon,  you're  right,"  said  Dion.  "But 
though  they  had  the  diamonds,  they  dared  not  show 
them.  You  know  it  is  dead  against  such  law  as  we  have 
out  here;  and  they  would  shoot  a  native  as  they'd  shoot 
a  dog.  But  the  poor  fellows  had  almost  the  equivalent 
of  diamonds  in  ostrich  feathers  and  plumes,  plucked 
sometimes  from  the  living  animal.  These  are  of  great 
value,  as  the  Cape  merchants  know.  And  sometimes 
the  natives  brought  in  pieces  of  ivory,  red  as  yonder 
sunset,  for  which  the  honest  traders  would  fight  like 
catamounts." 


THE  AMABELE  VALLEY  429 

"Well,  somehow,"  Dion  continued  after  a  pause,  "I 
had  pity  on  the  poor  devils,  seeing  them  so  outrageously- 
swindled;  and  by  degrees  I  got  them  to  understand  that 
these  feathers  were  worth  ten  times,  twenty  times,  a 
hundred  times  the  value  the  traders  set  on  them.  They 
were  slow  to  understand;  but,  when  they  understood, 
they  held  on  like  grim  death.  And  the  poor  devils 
were  touchingly  grateful.  They  wanted  me  to  decamp 
and  become  their  king;  they  promised  me  fifty  wives 
and  a  tent  full  of  ostrich  plumes.  They  promised  me 
everything.     I  say.  Jack!" 

"  Well?  "  said  Jack,  who  was  deeply  interested. 
"You  may  say  what  you  like  about  civilization  and 
all  that.     But,  by  Jove,  if  ever  there  is  to  be  a  valley  of 
Jehoshaphat,  I'll  take  my  chance  with  the  black  nigger 
and  not  with  the  white  robber  and  plunderer." 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "you  know  all  this  couldn't 
go  on.  The  bosses  were  getting  suspicious,  although 
they  still  had  cent  per  cent  for  their  money.  And  I  was 
beginning  to  think  of  looking  out  for  another  place,  or  mak- 
ing tracks  for  home,  when  one  day  I  was  caught  in  a 
thunderstorm,  and  I  had  to  run  for  a  Bushman's  kraal. 
I  was  only  in  when  down  came  deluge  number  two,  to 
which  old  Noah's  Deluge  was  but  a  sprinkling  from  a 
waterpot.  I  heard  a  whisper  amongst  the  gins,  with 
whom  I  was  a  prime  favourite,  because  I  gave  them  little 
bits  of  glass  jewelry  and  little  bells  and  such  like  childish 
things;  and  I  heard  them  say:  "Tis  the  Ba-as!' 

"They  were  shy  and  frightened,  poor  devils,  but  I  could 
see  how  glad  they  were  to  see  me.  And,  after  a  time, 
they  renewed  their  offer;  and  then,  to  tempt  me  further, 
they  volunteered  to  show  me  some  of  their  ostrich 
farms  and  where  they  found  their  ivories.  I  went;  and 
the  more  I  saw,  the  more  I  wondered.  Of  course,  every- 
thing was  primitive  and  savage;  but,  by  Jove,  if  the  white 
man  could  put  his  hungry  eyes  on  what  I  saw,  he  would 
exterminate  every  black  man  in  Africa.  I  went  home 
next  day,  for  the  distance  was  great,  to  find  a  curt  dis- 


430  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

missal  before  me  for  being  absent  from  duty.  I  wasn't 
sorry.     I  went  back  to  the  tribes." 

Dion  stopped,  as  if  thinking.  Then,  he  resumed: 
"Jack,  I'm  no  saint,  God  knows;  but,  on  my  mother's 
soul,  I  acted  with  the  strictest  honour  with  these  poor 
devils.  I  suppose,  like  all  men,  I  have  that  devil's 
hunger  of  money  in  my  heart;  but,  if  I  were  going  to 
judgment  now,  I  do  not  hold  a  fraction  dishonestly  or 
unlawfully  obtained.  I  showed  these  poor  fellows  the 
strict  money  value  of  their  goods ;  I  made  them  reorgan- 
ize on  a  newer  system  their  ostrich-farms;  I  made  them 
store  up  in  secret  places  their  treasures  of  ivory;  and 

—  I  showed  them,  but  they  were  mighty  slow  to  believe 
it,  that  the  bits  of  glass  from  Birmingham  were  useless, 
and  that  their  own  bits  of  polished  stone  were  of  great 
value.  They  wouldn't  believe  me;  and  they  wanted  me 
to  take  some  of  these  stones,  which  would  have  made  me 
a  half-a-millionaire.     I  refused  them." 

"Dion,"  said  Jack  enthusiastically,  "you  were  always 
a  brick." 

"Did  I  lose?"  continued  Dion.  "Not  a  bit!  I  went 
to  the  Cape,  negotiated  with  other  feather  merchants, 
feehng  my  way  cautiously.  I  put  these  poor  devils  on 
to  a  good  market;  and  they  repaid  me  nobly.     And  then 

—  the  white  devil  got  into  their  hearts;  and  now,  they 
are  becoming  mere  white  men,  cunning,  avaricious, 
treacherous,  under  the  yellow  curse.  But  they  are  loyal 
to  me!  In  a  radius  of  two  hundred  miles  from  here  I 
am  master.  I  command  their  loyalty  and  their  ser- 
vices. They  would  cheat  and  murder  any  other  white 
man,  if  they  were  provoked  by  revenge  or  avarice.  They 
would  die  for  me.  But  I  am  not  a  rich  man,  thank  God ! 
I  have  this  farm  and  these  pretty  things,  which  are 
valuable;  and  one  thing  more,  which  I  shall  show 
you!" 

He  went  away;  and,  in  the  meantime,  Annie  came  in 
to  do  some  little  service. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  you  were'nt   here,  Annie,"   said 


I 


THE  AMABELE  VALLEY  431 

Jack,  "  to  hear  the  history  of  Dion's  adventures.  I  must 
get  him  to  tell  you  all  again." 

"He  appears  to  be  a  little  king  around  here,"  said 
Annie.  "The  moment  the  natives  understood  you 
were  his  brother,  they  wanted  to  besiege  us  with  kind- 
ness." 

"Weren't  we  lucky,  Annie?"  he  cried,  his  eyes  glowing 
with  pleasure,  although  the  bones  around  the  sockets 
were  painfully  visible.  "Dion  will  be  here  in  a  moment; 
and  he'll  be  delighted." 

Dion  was  delighted.  He  came  back  with  a  little  paper 
box  in  his  hand,  which  he  opened.     Annie  moved  away. 

"Come  here,  Annie,"  he  said.  "We  have  no  secrets 
from  you." 

He  held  up  the  box,  and  took  out  a  large  diamond. 
It  was  a  bluish-white  stone,  the  two  colours  blending 
and  alternating  as  if  the  light  of  them  was  a  liquid.  Jack 
took  it  to  examine. 

"  I  would  be  afraid  to  tell  you  what  this  will  be  worth, 
when  cut  by  a  lapidary.  I  must  say  it  was  forced  on 
my  acceptance  by  one  of  the  chiefs  for  some  service 
which  I  thought  trifling,  but  which  he  thought  impor- 
tant. I  objected,  and  explained  fully  the  value  of  the 
stone.  It  was  pathetic  to  see  the  old  chief  shaking  his 
head,  as  he  said  in  his  own  dialect : 

"  '  It  is  no  use  to  me.  I  shall  soon  be  with  my  fathers. 
It  is  no  use  to  my  tribe.  The  white  man  has  come  to 
stay.  All  will  be  his.  Take  it,  while  it  is  in  my  power 
to  give.  Some  day,  you  will  marry  a  white  wife;  and  let 
it  be  her  wedding  portion. ' " 

Jack  was  turning  it  over  in  his  thin  frail  hands,  and 
holding  it  against  the  light.  At  Dion's  last  words  he 
became  very  thoughtful,  and  poised  the  stone  in  his 
fingers. 

"Dion!"  he  said,  at  length. 

"Well,  Jack?"  said  his  brother. 

"Dion!"  said  the  dying  boy,  "what  is  nobly  obtained, 
may  be  nobly  bestowed." 


432  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Certainly!"  said  Dion,  astonished  at  his  brother's 
solemnity. 

"Then  I  shall  make  it  our  sister  Annie's  wedding  por- 
tion," said  the  boy. 

"If  Annie  will  accept  it  as  such,"  said  Dion,  looking 
at  her  questioningly. 

And  the  tears  welled  into  her  eyes;  but  she  did  not 
say  Nay! 


CHAPTER  XLIV 

A  Farewell  Sermon 

When  the  old  pastor  turned  back  to  his  dining-room, 
after  expelling  forcibly  the  unfortunate  man,  who  had 
intruded  on  his  privacy  to  insult  him,  it  may  be  said  that 
the  door  closed  on  the  most  unhappy  being  on  this  planet. 
Full  of  disgust,  seK-shame,  mortification,  he  threw  him- 
self into  his  arm-chair,  and  yielded  himself  tamely  to  the 
torrent  of  troubles  that  had  suddenly  rushed  on  him. 
The  most  acute  of  all  his  reflections  was  that  he  had 
been  betrayed  into  an  act  of  violence  that  degraded 
himself.  He  thought  with  all  the  poignancy  of  sorrow 
and  shame  of  his  niece's  defection,  of  the  estrangement 
of  his  parishioners,  of  his  blindness  and  future  desola- 
tion.    But  he  cried  out  in  the  bitterness  of  his  soul : 

"I  could  have  borne  all,  all;  and  conquered  all.  But 
to  have  locked  my  hand,  my  consecrated  hand  in  the 
neck-cloth  of  a  drunken  peasant  —  oh!" 

The  following  day,  when  Henry  Liston  came  down, 
and  told  about  the  frightful  murder  of  the  preceding 
night,  he  was  surprised  at  his  pastor's  indifference  — 
still  more  surprised  when  the  latter  bade  him  take  up 
his  pen,  and  dictated  to  him  the  words  in  which  he  sent 
his  resignation  of  the  parish  to  his  Bishop. 

The  following  Sunday,  he  referred  very  briefly  to  the 
murder  that  had  taken  place.  He  spoke  of  it,  as  it  re- 
flected odium  on  the  parish,  and  as  the  result  of  un- 
bridled passion,  or  that  thirst  for  revenge,  which  had 
come  down  to  the  people  as  an  unhappy  heirloom  from 
their  pagan  ancestors.  But  he  did  not  breathe  a  word 
about  the  unhappy  man  whose  life  was  now  in  proxi- 
29  433 


434  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

mate  danger  on  account  of  the  crime.  But  when  he 
had  finished  his  allusions  he  did  not  turn  in  to  resume 
the  reading  of  the  Mass;  he  remained  for  some  time 
in  the  same  posture,  his  fingers  clasped  in  front  of  his 
vestments,  and  the  dark  glasses,  looking  quite  black 
in  the  gloom,  staring  down  at  the  congregation. 

After  some  minutes,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  conquer 
his  emotion,  he  said: 

"And  now  I  am  about  to  introduce  to  your  notice 
another  topic,  more  painful  to  me  than  that  to  which 
I  have  alluded,  and  probably  quite  as  painful  to  you. 
Since  I  became  pastor  of  this  parish  twenty-five  years 
ago,  I  have  never  allowed  any  infringement,  or  breach 
of  the  moral  law  to  pass  without  due  chastisement  from 
this  altar.  I  believed  then,  and  I  believe  now,  that 
there  is  no  better  way  of  checking  vice  than  bringing 
public  opinion  to  bear  upon  it;  and  thank  God,  so  far 
at  least,  public  opinion  is  on  the  side  of  God  and  Chris- 
tian morality.  What  the  near  future  may  bring,  God 
only  knows.  People  tell  me  that  things  are  changing, 
changing  rapidly,  changing  terribly  —  that  the  old,  deep, 
religious  sense  of  the  people  is  dying  away;  and  that  the 
law  of  God  will  not  be  reverenced  in  the  future  as  in 
the  past.  However  that  may  be,"  he  said,  raising  his 
voice,  and  speaking  with  the  old  sternness  and  determi- 
nation, "  I  shall  never  cease  to  uphold  the  high  standard 
of  morality  in  my  parish  that  was  handed  down  from 
my  predecessors;  and  to-day,  which  marks  my  last  ap- 
pearance on  this  altar,  I  hereby  denounce  and  stigmatize 
in  the  strongest  manner  the  conduct  of  one  who  was 
closely  connected  with  me  by  ties  of  flesh  and  blood, 
and  whose  departure  from  this  parish  took  place  under 
circumstances  that  have  been  the  occasion  of  great 
scandal  to  the  whole  community.  There  may  have 
been  no  sin  in  her  action  —  nay,  I'm  sure  there  has 
been  no  sin.  But  we  have  to  guard  not  only  against 
sin,  but  against  scandal;  and  those  who  are  placed  by 
education    and  otherwise  above  the  crowd    are  bound 


A  FAREWELL  SERMON  435 

particularly  to  avoid  everything  that  could  be  a  rock 
of  offence  to  their  humbler  and  weaker  brethren.  I 
know,  of  course,  the  defence  that  has  been  made.  I 
know  it  is  said  that  my  niece  is  a  professional  nurse, 
and  bound  to  attend  patients,  high  and  low,  rich  and 
poor.  I  know  also  that  her  motives  are  the  purest  and 
holiest  in  sacrificing  herself  to  accompany  a  dying  boy 
to  far-away  Africa.  But,  whatever  be  thought  of  these 
arguments  in  medical  circles,  and  whatever  be  the  new- 
fangled principles  that  have  come  into  being  these  last 
few  years  with  what  is  called  the  progress  of  science  and 
education,  I  have  to  consider  the  interests  of  my  flock, 
which,  at  least  as  yet,  has  not  abandoned  the  old  Chris- 
tian ideas  of  maiden  modesty  and  prudence.  Hence,  I 
gave  my  niece  the  alternative  of  staying  at  home  with 
me,  or  leaving  me  forever.  I  told  her  that  the  moment 
she  left  my  parish  under  such  circumstances  she  ceased 
to  be  my  niece.  She  took  her  choice.  And,"  he  said 
fiercely,  "  I  have  cut  her  image  out  of  my  heart  forever. 
She  shall  never  darken  my  door  again.  She  shall  never 
sit  at  my  table.  She  shall  never  hear  my  voice.  God 
knows,  it  is  true  I  did  look  forward  to  the  time  when 
she  might  be  a  help  and  a  comfort  to  me  in  my  old  age 
and  blindness.  The  strongest  of  us  will  cling  to  some 
support  in  our  darkness  and  descent  towards  the  grave; 
and  I  was  hoping  that  in  my  darkness  and  sorrow,  I 
would  have  some  one  near  me  to  help  me  to  spend  the 
lonely  and  sorrowful  hours  of  a  blind  old  age.  That 
is  not  to  be.  So  God  has  permitted;  so  she  has  decided. 
But,  as  I  have  said,  I  cast  her  away  from  me  forever. 
With  the  strangers  she  has  cast  her  lot;  and  her  lot  shall 
be  with  the  stranger  forever.  But  when  I  am  gone,  let 
no  man  say,  I  spared  my  own  flesh  and  blood,  when  the 
law  of  God  and  the  welfare  of  the  people  required  it." 

Here  again  he  paused;  and  there  was  the  deepest 
silence  in  the  church,  except  for  the  sobbing  of  the  women, 
who  swayed  themselves  to  and  fro,  under  the  tragic 
solemnity  of  the  scene,  and  who  broke  into  a  loud  wailing, 


436  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

when  the  priest's  voice  faltered  as  he  said:  "The  strong- 
est of  us  will  cling  to  some  support  in  our  darkness  and 
descent  toward  the  grave."  The  men  looked  down, 
fingering  their  hats,  but  their  faces  were  set  and  pale 
with  emotion. 

"And  now,"  said  the  parish  priest,  in  a  softer  voice, 
"I  have  to  announce  to  you  that  I  am  no  longer  your 
pastor.  I  have  sent  in  my  resignation  to  your  Bishop, 
and  he  has  accepted  it.  I  had  hoped,"  he  continued, 
not  noticing  the  increased  emotion  of  the  people,  "to 
remain  your  pastor  to  the  end,  because  there  is  a  certain 
human  pride  or  vanity  in  dying  with  the  honours  of  one's 
profession  and  in  harness.  But,  an  accident,  locked  up 
in  my  breast,  that  occurred  this  last  week  has  precipitated 
matters,  and  next  Sunday,  the  new  parish  priest  of 
Doonvarragh,  Lackagh,  and  Athboy  will  address  you 
from  this  altar.  Hence,  my  words  to-day  are  my  last 
words  to  you.  For  twenty-five  years  I  have  tried  to 
serve  God  and  you,  imperfectly  and  feebly,  I  know,  but 
yet,  I  think,  with  honesty  and  sincerity.  I  can  say 
with  St.  Paul,  that  '  I  did  not  covet  your  gold  or  silver.' 
Probably,  you  thought  I  was  often  exacting  about  dues; 
but  it  wasn't  for  myself,  but  because  I  believed  it  was 
a  duty  I  had  to  discharge.  To-day,  if  my  debts  were 
paid,  I  would  not  be  worth  one  shilling.  In  other  things, 
too,  you  thought  me  hard;  but  it  was  the  hardness  of 
the  father  that  seeks  the  welfare  of  his  child,  and  puts 
his  eternal  salvation  before  everything  else.  Hence,  I 
know  that  I  was  neither  loved  nor  liked  in  this  parish  —  " 

"  You  were,  you  were,  yer  reverence,"  cried  a  woman 
passionately  sobbing,  "but  you  didn't  know  the  people. 
You  kep'  away  from  'em;  but  they  loved  you  in  their 
heart  of  hearts." 

"An'  'tis  God  Almighty's  truth  that  the  woman  is 
afther  spakin',"  said  a  farmer,  standing  up,  although 
his  voice  shook  with  the  unusual  experience  of  having 
spoken  in  a  church. 

A  deep  murmur  of  approbation  and  sympathy  ran 


A  FAREWELL  SERMON  437 

through  the  congregation  at  these  words.  It  was  an 
inarticulate,  but  eloquent  declaration  of  love  and  loyalty 
that  a  king  might  envy.  It  touched  the  strong  man  at 
the  altar  so  keenly  that  his  whole  frame  shook  with 
emotion,  and  his  trembling  hand  went  fumbling  beneath 
the  chasuble  for  his  handkerchief.  And  when  he  took 
out  the  old  red  handkerchief,  and  lifting  up  the  black 
glasses,  wiped  those  eyes  where  the  light  of  Heaven 
would  never  shine  again,  a  low,  long  wail  of  anguish  rose 
up  from  the  dense  mass  of  people,  and  many  a  heart- 
felt and  burning  word  in  Irish  reached  the  ears  of  the 
weeping  priest. 

It  was  fully  five  minutes  before  he  could  master  his 
emotion,  or  subdue  theirs.  Then  he  said,  hastily  hiding 
his  hands  beneath  his  chasuble: 

"There!  There!  I  did  not  expect  this.  But  what's 
done  can't  be  undone  now.  But  you  have  unmanned 
me;  and  I  must  now  refrain  from  saying  all  that  I  wanted 
to  say.  But  it  was  briefly  this!  I  felt  all  along  that  I 
belonged  to  a  past  generation;  and  that  all  my  thoughts 
and  dreams  were  out  of  place  now.  I  thought  I  belonged 
to  the  time  when  the  people  were  tender  and  true,  were 
kindly  and  honourable  towards  each  other,  and  had  a  deep 
love  in  their  hearts  for  God  and  Ireland.  All  my  own  love 
and  hope  and  ambition  were  centred  in  these  two  words. 
To  do  God's  work,  however  imperfectly,  to  serve  Ireland, 
however  unworthily,  here  was  my  ambition,  here  was 
my  reward!  Then  I  thought,  perhaps  unwisely,  that  the 
new  generation  which  had  arisen  did  not  understand 
these  things  —  that  there  was  more  selfishness,  more 
cunning,  more  treachery  in  these  days  than  in  the  days 
that  are  gone.  But,  somehow,  little  glimpses  into  the 
lives  of  the  people,  from  time  to  time,  made  me  suspect 
that  perhaps  I  misunderstood  them;  and  to-day,  as  I 
am  leaving  you,  I  most  humbly  ask  your  pardon,  and 
that  of  Almighty  God,  if  I  have  formed  a  wrong  judg- 
ment about  you.  But  all  that  is  gone.  And  in  saying 
Farewell!  to  you,  believe  me  that  I  carry  with  me  a 


438  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

consolation  that  I  never  expected  to  possess,  and  that 
will  be  a  staff  and  support  to  my  tottering  feet  in  the  way 
I  have  yet  to  tread.  And  all  that  I  will  ask  of  you  in 
return  is,  to  forget,  as  far  as  you  can,  my  own  failings 
whilst  I  was  here,  and  to  be  merciful  to  my  memory  when 
I'm  dead!" 

The  acute  agony  of  the  people  had  died  away;  but 
there  was  a  deep  murmur  of  prayer  and  praise,  when  the 
priest  turned  around,  and  felt  his  way  to  the  end  of  the 
altar. 

When  he  came  forth  from  the  sacristy  after  his  Thanks- 
giving, the  whole  congregation  were  on  their  knees  before 
him;  and  the  acolyte,  who  held  his  hand  and  led  him, 
had  to  pick  his  way  through  a  narrow  avenue  to  the  gate. 
The  old  priest  knew  by  the  instinct  of  the  blind  that  he 
was  passing  through  a  crowd;  and  he  made  the  Sign  of 
the  Cross  over  them  as  he  went.  But  he  hardly  recog- 
nized the  dimensions  of  the  multitude,  until  he  reached 
the  gate,  and  heard  the  noise  of  the  people  standing  up, 
and  the  tumult  of  exclamation  that  followed  him  as  he 
passed  down  the  road  to  where  his  horse  was  standing. 
Just  as  he  was  mounting  his  car,  he  felt  his  coat-tails 
plucked  gently;  and,  stooping  down,  he  caught  the  tiny 
hand  of  a  little  child. 

"Father,"  said  she,  in  her  childish  way,  "won't  you 
come  back  any  more?" 

"Who  is  this?"  he  said.     "Whom  have  I  got  here?" 

"I'm  Eileen  Hogan  —  'Chatterbox,'  you  know!" 

It  was  one  of  his  school  favourites,  whom  he  had  chris- 
tened with  that  name. 

He  gently  stroked  the  fair  hair  of  the  child,  and  passed 
his  hand  over  her  soft  cheek. 

"No!  Eily,"  he  said.  "But  maybe  you'll  come  to  see 
me.     Good-bye!  and  be  a  good  girl! " 

He  mounted  his  car  and  drove  away. 

Mrs.  Duggan  was  not  in  the  habit  of  going  to  first 
Mass  to  Doonvarragh.     She  found  it  easier  to  attend  the 


A  FAREWELL  SERMON  439 

ten  o'clock  Mass  at  Athboy,  which  was  equidistant  from 
her  house.  She  was  not  present,  therefore,  at  the  scene 
just  described,  which  took  place  in  Doonvarragh  chapel; 
but  she  heard  of  it,  and  in  the  newly-found  enthusiasm 
of  the  people,  it  lost  nothing  in  the  recital.  And,  amidst 
her  own  profound  sorrow  and  shame,  she  could  not  help 
feeling  a  little  pride  in  her  own  loyalty  to  her  pastor,  and 
the  way  in  which  her  opinions  had  now  been  vindicated. 

"Many  and  many  a  time  I  tould  ye,  ye  were  wrong 
—  out  an'  out ;  but  ye  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  Wid  yere 
education,  an'  yere  dress,  an'  yere  style,  ye  think  ye  know 
more  than  Almighty  God  Himself,  Glory  be  to  His  Holy 
Name!  But,  whin  the  throuble  comes,  thin  ye  opens 
yere  eyes,  or  rather  they're  opened  for  ye!  Oh,  mavrone! 
if  that  poor  bhoy  had  only  been  said  and  led  by  his 
prieshts,  he'd  have  a  different  shtory  to  tell  to-day. 
But,  sure,  no  wan,  from  the  beginnin'  of  the  wurruld  till 
now  ever  knew  luck  nor  grace  attindin'  anywan,  that 
wint  agin  their  prieshts." 

There  was  no  reply.  There  never  was  a  reply  to  any 
outburst  of  honest  eloquence  on  the  part  of  the  Irish 
vanithees.  They  did  not  reason,  nor  argue,  nor  debate. 
They  decreed.     And  there  was  no  appeal. 

Suddenly,  a  new  idea  flashed  across  the  mind  of  the 
brave  old  woman.  They  had  told  her  that  her  parish 
priest  was  going  away.  Perhaps,  she  would  never  see 
him  again,  never  have  the  chance  of  telling  how  faith- 
ful and  loyal  she  was  amidst  all  changes  and  vicissi- 
tudes. She  instantly  gave  orders  to  have  the  horse  and 
cart  brought  out  again,  demanded  a  new  cap,  freshly- 
quilted  and  frilled,  and  put  on  the  great  cloth  cloak  with 
the  satin  hood,  which  was  the  ornament  and  glory  of 
Irish  womanhood,  and  which  not  only  lasted  a  lifetime, 
but  was  often  passed  down  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion. Thus  attired,  she  drove  down  to  the  parish  priest's 
house  with  one  of  her  boys,  and  entered  the  presbytery 
grounds. 

The  old  priest,  in  his  cassock,  was  walking  up  and  down 


440  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

in  the  sunshine,  along  the  gravelled  path  that  lay  along 
the  southern  walls  of  his  house.  He  was  thinking  of 
many  things,  pondering  many  things  in  his  old,  syllo- 
gistic fashion,  wondering,  most  of  all,  whether  he  had 
not  been  labouring  all  his  life  under  the  mistake  that  Law 
is  the  finality  of  Being,  and  that  he  had  never  discerned 
that  there  may  be  something  higher  than  Law,  or  a  Law 
beyond  Law,  and  that  is  Love!  He  had  never  seemed 
to  doubt  before  that  rigid,  inexorable  Law  was  the  gov- 
erning Power  of  the  Universe;  and  that  it  was  only  mute 
and  unquestioning  obedience  to  its  behests  that  saved 
the  Universe  and  the  souls  of  men  from  irreparable 
ruin. 

He  would  as  soon  have  doubted  the  conclusions  of  a 
proposition  in  Euclid,  or  a  formal  syllogism,  as  this. 
It  was  his  Faith  —  the  cardinal  principle  of  his  life;  and 
he  had  always  prided  himself  on  the  strict  and  unexcep- 
tional manner  in  which  he  had  acted  on  the  principle. 
It  was  the  bulwark  of  the  Church  and  State  and  people. 
Remove  that,  or  tamper  with  it,  and  down  comes  every- 
thing in  hopeless  and  irretrievable  ruin.  But  now  some- 
thing higher  than  mere  reason  told  him  that  throughout 
the  vast  universe  there  was  a  something  higher  and  holier 
than  Law  —  or  rather  that  the  highest  of  all  laws  —  the 
Supreme  Excellence  was  Love.  That  murmur  amongst 
the  people  at  Mass;  that  bold  expression  of  unlettered 
peasants,  when  they  told  him  he  was  utterly  mistaken; 
and  his  own  tears  —  were  the  eloquent  defenders  of  the 
sublime  thesis  that  "  Love  is  Creation's  Final  Law." 
And  then,  by  a  logical,  but  painful  transition,  he  suddenly 
asked  himself  —  After  all,  was  Annie  right?  Was  her  act 
of  self-immolation,  too,  although  it  seemed  to  him  to 
transgress  the  laws  of  propriety,  still  in  perfect  conso- 
nance with  the  higher  decrees  which,  in  the  name  of  hu- 
manity, had  been  confirmed  and  consecrated  by  common 
consent? 

It  was  whilst  he  was  thus  agitated,  that  he  heard  the 
sound   of   the  heavy   cart-wheels  crunching   the   gravel 


A  FAREWELL  SERMON  441 

before  the  door,  and  his  old  housekeeper  immediately- 
after  announcing  to  him  that  Mrs.  Duggan  was  waiting 
to  see  him. 

She  hadn't  seen  her  parish  priest  for  some  months; 
and  she  was  much  shocked  at  the  alteration  in  his  appear- 
ance, and  deeply  touched  when  she  saw  him  groping  his 
way  in  utter  darkness. 

"Wisha,  yer  reverence,"  she  said,  "you  will  forgive  me 
callin'  on  you  in  yer  throuble;  but  sure  I  hard  all  about 
your  sermon  this  mornin'  —  and  are  you  goin'  to  lave 
us?" 

"Sit  down,  Mrs.  Duggan,"  he  said,  extending  his 
hand  blindly  to  her,  "  it  is  good  of  you  to  come  and  see 
me;  and  you  having  such  a  weight  of  trouble  on  your- 
self." 

"Well,  sure,  welcome  be  the  will  of  God,"  she  said. 
"It  is  a  sore,  hard  thrial  enough  for  me  in  me  old  age. 
But  sure,  nothin'  betther  could  come  from  the  dhrinkin' 
and  the  fightin'  an'  the  card-playin'.  An'  all  that  was  bad 
enough,  if  he  hadn't  turned  agin  his  prieshts." 

The  priest  said  nothing;  but  waited. 

"An'  is  it  thrue,  yer  reverence,  that  you're  goin'  away 
from  us?" 

"  'Tis,  Mrs.  Duggan,"  he  said.  "  You  see  I  am  old  and 
now  I'm  run  blind;  and  'tis  a  big  parish,  and  I  wouldn't 
feel  easy  in  my  conscience  to  keep  it,  when  I  couldn't 
do  all  that  I  ought  to  do  for  the  people." 

"Wisha,  thin,  yer  reverence  will  forgive  me  for  sayin' 
it;  but  the  people  wor  sayin'  couldn't  his  reverence  get 
another  curate,  and  resht  himself?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  he  said.  "The  parish  is  large,  but 
the  population  is  much  lessened  by  emigration.  The 
place  wouldn't  support  three  priests." 

"  But  sure  the  people,  yer  reverence,  av  you  only  axed 
them,  or  put  up  your  finger,  'ud  incrase  their  jues,  and 
give  all  you  want." 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully.  He  was  afraid  to  deny 
it  now,  because  it  would  take  away  the  beautiful  impres- 


442  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

sions  left  on  his  memory  since  the  morning.  But  it  was 
too  late. 

"It  is  too  late  now  to  think  of  it,"  he  said.  "Tell  me 
about  your  own  trouble." 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,  yer  reverence,"  she  replied. 
"We  have  done  all  in  our  power  for  this  misfortunate 
bhoy;  but  I'm  afraid  'tis  no  use.  Everythin'  is  agin  him; 
and  he'll  give  no  help  himself." 

"Why  doesn't  he  tell  his  solicitor  all  he  knows,"  said 
the  priest,  "and  why  doesn't  he  protest  his  innocence?" 

"Maybe  he  can't,"  said  the  poor  mother,  lifting  up 
her  hands  and  letting  them  fall  in  her  lap.  "Maybe 
he  can't;  and  he  knows  'tis  no  use!" 

"He  was  remanded  last  Thursday?"  said  the  priest. 
"Was  he  not?" 

"He  was,  yer  reverence,  and  taken  up  to  Cork  Gaol; 
an'  he'll  be  brought  down  nixt  Thursday  with  the  hand- 
cuffs on  him,  and  the  whole  wurruld  lookin'  at  him." 

The  thought  of  her  boy  handcuffed  as  a  spectacle  to 
the  world  was  too  much  for  her,  and  she  broke  into  a  fit 
of  weeping. 

He  let  her  alone,  until  she  calmed  herself,  and  again  asked : 

"Will  there  be  any  new,  any  additional  evidence 
against  him,  do  you  think?" 

"Wisha,  we  don't  know,  yer  reverence,"  she  replied. 
"  I'm  tould  the  police  are  scourin'  the  counthry  right  an' 
left,  and  axin'  all  kinds  of  questions  about  the  poor  bhoy. 
An'  there  he  is,  not  a  word  out  of  him.  He  won't  say 
Iss,  Aye,  or  No,  to  any  question  he's  axed.  All  he'll 
say  is,  'I'll  be  hanged,  an'  I  deserved  it.'" 

"That's  very  bad,"  said  the  priest,  thoughtfully.  "He 
is  sinking  into  despair.  Is  there  anything  new  discov- 
ered?" 

"Nothin',  as  I  tould  yer  reverence.  But  they  say  the 
police  wor  down  at  the  ould  castle  all  day  on  Saturday. 
And  there's  no  knowing  what  these  haythens  may  swear, 
if  they  are  paid  for  it." 

"Many  and  many  a  time  I  warned  the  people  against 


A  FAREWELL  SERMON  443 

the  gypsies,"  he  said  in  his  old  tone  of  complaint;  but  he 
suddenly  stopped.  Complaints  and  recriminations  were 
no  more  for  him. 

"Thrue  for  your  reverence,"  said  the  old  woman, 
catching  the  word.  "  But  the  people  had  their  own  way; 
and  much  good  has  it  done  them." 

After  another  long  pause,  he  said : 

"I  suppose  he'll  be  committed  now  to  the  summer 
assizes.  Or,  they  may  remand  him  again  and  again. 
But  I  wish  the  boy  would  break  silence.  It  would  help 
to  establish  his  innocence." 

"  And  maybe  your  reverence  thinks  that  he  is  innocent 
—  that  he  never  done  the  deed?"  she  cried,  with  awa- 
kened hope. 

"Do  you  mean  Dick?"  he  said. 

"Av  coorse,  I  do,  yer  reverence.  'Tis  of  Dick  I'm 
talkin'." 

"Dick  no  more  murdered  Ned  Kerins  than  I  did,"  said 
the  priest.  "And  God  will  prove  his  innocence  to  the 
world,  as  you'll  see." 

"Oh  thin,  may  the  Almighty  God  power  his  blessings 
down  on  you  every  day  you  live,"  said  the  poor  woman, 
from  whose  heart  a  mighty  load  was  now  lifted.  "  Sure 
I  don't  care  what  happens  now,  so  long  as  he  hasn't 
the  sin  of  murder  on  his  sowl.  Let  'em  hang  and  quarter 
him  if  they  likes.  Sure  many  an  innocent  man  was 
hanged  in  Ireland  before.  So  long  as  I  know  that  he 
didn't  sind  that  misfortunate  man  to  judgment  with 
his  sin  on  his  sowl." 

"  But,"  said  the  priest  solemnly,  not  heeding  her  words, 
"you  mustn't  breathe  to  man  or  mortal  what  I've  said 
to  you.  The  officers  of  the  law  are  clever;  and  they  would 
block  every  effort  on  your  son's  behalf  if  they  knew  them. 
So  you  must  promise  me  now  that  what  has  happened 
here  this  afternoon  will  be  as  secret  as  the  grave." 

"  You  may  depind  on  me,  yer  reverence,"  she  said. 

"The  life  of  your  son  depends  on  your  silence,"  he 
repeated. 


444  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Oh  thin,  oh  thin,  oh  thin,"  she  cried,  kissing  the 
priest's  hand  in  an  ecstasy  of  gratitude,  "  may  the  Lord 
forgive  him  and  thim  who  didn't  know  what  kind  of 
priesht  they  had,  till  they  lost  him." 

"Mind,"  he  said," I  didn't  say  that  I,  but  God  would 
save  your  son.  And  remember,  God  is  only  moved  by 
prayer;  and  above  all,  by  a  mother's  prayers." 


CHAPTER  XLV 

The  Moonlight  Shroud 

When  Annie  O'Farrell  came  out  from  the  sick-chamber 
after  the  strange  scene  with  the  two  brothers,  she  felt 
that  the  great  hour  of  her  Hfe  had  come,  and  that  all  her 
own  happiness,  as  well  as  that  of  others,  depended  on 
her  choice.  She  was  quite  aware  all  along  that  she  was 
not  indifferent  to  the  brave  young  fellow,  who  had  often 
amused  her  by  his  quaintness  and  candour  in  the  days  of 
their  tuition;  and  she  also  felt  that  she  could  no  longer 
look  upon  him  as  in  his  pupillage,  but  as  one  who  com- 
manded respect  and  affection  from  an  innate  nobility 
of  character,  which  had  been  developed  under  strange 
and  untoward  circumstances.  The  sense  of  dependence 
on  her,  too,  which  both  young  men  manifested,  seemed 
to  give  them  claims  which  easily  developed  into  the 
highest  that  a  girl  can  give  or  have;  and  hence,  the  tran- 
sition was  so  easy  from  protection  to  affection,  from  re- 
spect to  love,  that  when  the  final  proposal  was  made  so 
simply,  so  delicately,  so  honourably,  she  could  not  help 
feeling  gratified  and  pleased  at  this  last  and  highest 
mark  of  respect  that  the  young  can  pay  to  each  other. 
But  then  —  a  fatal  obstacle  to  her  union  with  Dion  rose 
up  darkly  and  threateningly  before  her.  She  was  a 
Catholic ;  and  he  —  ?  She  had  made  great  sacrifices 
for  these  boys;  but  this  she  could  not  make.  She  had 
trampled  on  human  opinion  without  scruple;  but  this 
was  something  more. 

It  was  in  such  perplexity  Dion  found  her  some  time 
after  their  interview  in  his  brother's  sick-chamber.  She 
was  standing  near  one  of  the  fountains,  looking  into  it 

445 


446  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

with  a  mind  preoccupied  with  doubt.  She  did  not  hear 
Dion  approach  on  the  thick  grass.  It  was  his  shadow 
cast  across  the  water  that  trembled  in  the  fountain  she 
first  saw.  She  started  and  turned,  and  a  faint  blush 
covered  her  face. 

"  You  forgot  this,  Annie,"  said  the  young  man,  holdinq; 
out  the  little  box  in  which  the  diamond  lay.  "It  is 
yours!" 

"Dion,"  said  she,  "I  can't  take  it.     Indeed,  I  can't!" 

"Why,  what's  the  matter,  Annie?"  he  said,  in  surprise, 
"I  gave  it  to  you.  Have  Jack  and  I  been  blundering 
badly?" 

"No!  no!"  she  said  hastily.  "You  meant  everything 
that  was  kind.  But  I  fear,  Dion,  this  is  a  thing  that 
cannot  be." 

"Well,  all  that  depends  on  yourself,  Annie,"  he  said, 
in  a  manly  way.  "  I  suppose  we  could  have  done  things 
more  delicately.  I  see  now  we  were  abrupt.  But  Jack 
had  set  his  heart  on  this  matter;  and  you  must  have 
known,  Annie,  what  my  feelings  were  this  long  time." 

Annie  hung  down  her  head.  She  felt  somehow  that 
it  was  from  herself  the  apology  was  due. 

"I  can  see,"  Dion  went  on,  "that  there  was  a  certain 
indelicacy  in  forcing  the  subject  on  you,  because,  I  sup- 
pose, you  feel  a  certain  want  of  protection  away  so  far 
from  home  and  friends.  But,  somehow,  you  know, 
Aimie,  you  had  become  one  of  ourselves  —  " 

"Dion,  don't!"  said  Annie,  crying.  "You  and  Jack 
have  been  everything  that  was  kind  and  good;  but  where 
is  the  use?  Let  me  put  it  plainly  to  you.  I  am  a  Roman 
Catholic,  and  I  cannot  marry  anyone  outside  my  own 
faith." 

"  But  I  am  of  your  faith,"  said  Dion.  "  You  are  my 
religion,  because  you  represent  all  that  is  good  and  noble 
and  honourable;  and  I  don't  want  any  religion  but  that." 

"If  I  am  all  that  you  think  I  am,"  she  said  gravely, 
"it  is  because  of  my  religion." 

"Well,  then,"  he  said,  "your  religion  is  mine.     Look 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SHROUD  447 

here,  Annie.  When  I  came  up  from  civilization,  from 
town  and  cities,  I  had  little  faith  in  God  or  man  left  in 
my  heart.  But,  when  I  began  to  understand  these  poor 
savages  here  around,  whatever  little  faith  I  had  revived. 
Because  I  said  to  myself,  '  Look  now  at  these  poor  fellows! 
They  have  no  education,  no  books,  no  schools;  and  yet 
they  have  a  code  of  morals  and  honour  that  equals  those 
of  advanced  peoples;  and  what  is  more,  they  act  on  it. 
They  are  honest,  sober,  self-denying,  abstemious,  chaste, 
obedient.  Surely,'  I  said,  'there  must  be  some  Being 
who  implanted  such  virtues  in  their  hearts.'  And  the 
savage  taught  me  to  see  God.  Then  you  came  and  I 
saw  something  more.  No,  Annie,  I  am  far  from  being 
an  irreligious  man.  All  that  is  holy,  all  that  is  pure, 
all  that  is  noble,  in  the  world,  I  worship  in  you.  That's 
my  religion!  And  if  there  be  anything  more  required, 
you  shall  be  my  priestess;  and  your  people  shall  be  my 
people,  and  your  God,  my  God!" 

"You  are  a  good  man,  Dion,"  she  said.  "But  I  want 
you  to  know  that  behind  me  is  Truth.  Can  you  accept 
the  Truth,  when  it  is  shown  to  you?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "And  now,  Annie,  there's  no 
time  to  lose.  I  know  it  would  make  Jack  happier  if  he 
knew  —  if  he  saw  us  married  before  he  closes  his  eyes 
in  death.     Shall  I  tell  him  all?" 

"Yes!"  she  said.  "I  should  like  to  make  poor  Jack 
happy." 

"Then,"  said  Dion,  "I'll  lose  no  time.  I  know  where 
there's  a  Padre,  a  good  old  Irishman,  too!  He  is  a  hun- 
dred miles  off;  but  one  of  my  men  can  have  him  here  in 
two  or  three  days.  You  tell  him  eveiything,  and  just 
say,  that  I  and  Jack  are  in  your  hands,  and  let  him  square 
up  everything  at  once.  You  know  I'm  no  great  hand  at 
praying  and  all  that  kind  of  thing.  But  you'll  do  it 
all  for  me  —  won't  you,  Annie?" 

And  Annie  had  to  smile  at  the  simplicity  of  this  big 
boy  —  who  was  just  as  buoyant  and  candid  as  he  was 
when  many  years  ago  she  cuffed  him  at  his  Latin  lessons. 


448  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

The  evening  of  their  marriage,  they  sat  out  on  the 
veranda  in  front  of  the  house,  watching  the  play  of  the 
fountains  on  the  still  warm  air  —  the  long  thread  of 
water  that  shot  from  the  pipes  beneath,  and  then  seemed 
to  foliate  itself  in  many-tinted  leaves,  which  fell,  drop 
by  drop,  or  petal  by  petal,  into  the  foaming  basin  be- 
neath. The  air  was  light  and  buoyant,  yet  filled  with 
a  thousand  fragrant  odours  from  flower  and  bush  and 
shrub;  and  there  was  an  exquisite  stillness  all  around, 
unbroken  by  cry  of  bird  or  shriek  of  beast.  There  was 
no  sound  but  the  tinkling  of  the  drops  of  crystal  that 
fell,  like  musical  bells,  on  the  silence  all  around. 

Jack  Wycherly,  shriven  and  anointed,  lay  in  his  hammock 
near  the  ground;  Dion  and  Annie  sat  near  him;  and  the 
Padre  was  at  the  other  side,  joining  now  and  again  in 
the  general  conversation.  Although  the  occasion  was  a 
festive  one,  there  was  an  air  of  sadness  and  subdued 
melancholy  over  the  group,  because  they  felt  that  the 
frail  life  in  their  midst  was  ebbing  slowly  away,  and  the 
shadow  of  death  was  upon  them.  Yet,  not  one  of  them 
could  say  that  he  was  unhappy,  least  of  all  the  poor  lad, 
whose  very  consciousness  of  the  near  approach  of  death 
seemed  to  place  him  beyond  human  sorrow,  and  to 
lift  him  into  new  spaces  of  more  spiritual  and  ethereal 
being. 

The  festivities  of  the  day  were  over,  as  they  thought. 
Everything  that  could  be  done  for  the  natives  in  Dion's 
employment,  and  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  to  make 
the  day  remarkable,  and  one  to  be  placed  forever  in  their 
memory,  had  been  effected  by  the  noiseless  benevolence 
of  their  master;  and  they  had  scattered  to  their  rooms 
in  the  vicinity,  or  down  to  their  kraals  near  the  river, 
glutted  with  the  happiness  of  children,  who  never  care 
to  see  beyond  the  present. 

The  sun  had  set  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  the  big  moon 
came  up  from  behind  the  valley;  and  the  four  figures 
on  the  veranda  never  stirred.  Two  were  drinking  in 
the  perfect  happiness  of  their  union,  and  whispering  to 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SHROUD  449 

each  other  the  nameless  nothings  that  are  interesting 
to  them  and  to  no  one  else  besides;  one  was  buried  in 
his  own  thoughts  —  of  his  far-off  country,  of  his  solitude, 
of  his  work.  And  one  was  quite  still,  counting  his  heart- 
beats and  measuring  his  breathing,  and  gazing  with 
greater  love  than  a  brother's  on  the  happiness  he  had 
been  the  unconscious  instrument  of  creating. 

Whilst  all  was  perfectly  still  and  lovely,  there  seemed 
to  start  suddenly  from  the  ground  a  group  of  native  men 
and  women,  who  approached  gently  and  with  an  air  of 
apology  in  their  movements,  and  formed  themselves 
into  a  dusky  circle  around  the  group  on  the  veranda. 
Then,  one  beat  gently  and  slowly  with  his  fingers  a  flat 
drum  that  he  held;  and,  in  a  florid  recitation,  he  told 
of  the  grandeur  and  the  greatness  of  their  master.  When 
he  had  done,  another  arose,  stepped  forward  from  the 
throng,  and  in  a  similar  recitative  recounted  the  many 
favours  the  black  man  had  received  from  their  white 
brother  —  the  little  gifts,  the  wise  advice,  the  guardian- 
ship and  protection  he  had  always  extended  to  them. 
Then,  a  young  girl,  the  fairest  of  their  tribe,  stepped 
forward,  clothed  in  white  to  her  ankles;  and  bringing 
in  her  arms  a  basket  such  as  is  woven  by  the  natives 
out  of  pampas-grass  and  reeds,  she  knelt  down,  and, 
kissing  Annie's  feet  with  a  gesture  of  absolute  humility 
and  subjection,  she  placed  the  basket,  full  of  the  richest 
flowers,  in  Annie's  lap.  She  raised  herself,  and  made 
a  profound  inclination  to  the  young  "white  queen," 
when  Annie,  touched  by  all  this  affection  and  love  on 
the  part  of  the  poor  natives,  stood  up,  and  throwing  her 
arms  around  the  girl's  neck,  she  kissed  her  on  both  cheeks. 
The  native  curtseyed  again,  and  went  back  beaming 
with  happiness  to  her  people,  who  were  wild  with  joy 
at  the  honour  paid  one  of  their  tribe. 

"Annie,"    said   Jack,   who   was   watching    the   whole 

proceeding  with  great  interest,  and  who  now  took  his 

sister's  hand  in  his  own,  "that  was  beautiful.     It  was 

so  like  you.     Do  you  know  that  I  feel  very  happy  now? 

30 


450  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

In  fact,  I  do  not  think  I  was  ever  so  happy  in  my  whole 
life.  I  feel  quite  light,  as  if  I  were  going  to  fly.  Wasn't 
it  lucky,  Annie,  for  us  all  that  we  got  away  from  that 
murky,  misty  country  and  came  here  to  find  Dion  and 
—  such  a  scene  as  this?  Oh,  yes!  I'm  awfully  happy. 
I  never  thought  I  could  be  so  happy  before.  But,  hist! 
the  natives  are  singing." 

The  whole  tribe  were  singing  in  a  low  tone,  like  the 
murmur  of  a  far-off  sea.  They  were  singing  again  the 
praises  of  their  chief  and  the  white  queen.  They  were 
telling  how  she  came  amongst  them,  as  the  moon  comes 
out  of  a  cloud  by  night  to  enlighten  them  and  throw  the 
cold,  pure  rays  of  unselfish  love  into  their  kraals  and 
cabins.  They  told  how  she  nursed  their  babes  and  their 
sick;  how  she  had  no  dread  of  fevers,  or  diphtheria,  and 
how  the  dreaded  pneumonia,  caused  by  the  sand-storms 
of  their  hills,  fled  at  her  approach.  They  told  how  she 
even  nursed  the  lepers,  and  refused  to  accept  their  warn- 
ings of  the  dread  disease;  and  every  strophe  ended 
with  a  Hail!  or  Hallelujah!  to  the  great  white  queen, 
who  was  sent  across  the  seas  by  the  Spirit-Ruler  of  the 
universe  to  lift  the  black  man  from  death  and  the  deep 
pit. 

The  low,  murmured  monotone,  accompanied  by  the 
sound  of  the  falling  waters,  seemed  to  lull  the  listeners 
in  the  veranda  into  a  kind  of  half-wakeful  sleep.  The 
priest  was  the  first  to  rise;  and,  casting  a  careless  glance 
at  the  hammock  where  Jack  was  lying,  he  started  and 
looked  closer.  Then,  he  went  over,  and  whispered  some- 
thing to  Dion;  and  all  gathered  around  the  hammock. 

Yes!  There  was  no  mistaking  the  peace  that  slept  on 
the  brow  of  the  boy  —  a  peace,  unlike  that  of  happiness, 
or  sleep,  or  anything  else  that  is  holy  and  gentle  in  the 
living.  It  is  the  peace  that  cannot  be  lifted  or  broken 
or  banished  for  evermore,  by  sigh  or  pain,  or  tear,  or 
aught  else  that  wrings  the  soul,  and  contorts  the  features 
of  the  living.  Jack  Wycherly  was  dead!  dead  in  his 
hammock  on  the  dark  veranda  with  its  wreaths  of  fra- 


THE  MOONLIGHT  SHROUD  451 

grant  creepers  down  there  in  the  South-African  Valley. 
But  in  some  way,  the  golden  moon  had  come  round  in 
its  circuit,  and  evading  the  trellised  creepers  and  the 
pillars,  it  flooded  with  light  the  whole  length  of  the  ham- 
mock where  the  dead  boy  lay,  and  wrapped  him  in  its 
own  silver  shroud  of  pure  white  beams  from  the  depths 
of  the  African  skies.  His  eyes  were  still  wide  open,  and 
seemed  to  be  gazing  afar  like  the  sightless  eyes  of  a  poet 
or  a  seer;  and  his  lips  were  parted,  as  if  they  were  still 
uttering  the  benediction  on  his  beloved  sister,  that  was 
his  loving  valedictory  and  farewell  to  life.  One  dead 
hand  fell  over  the  side  of  his  hammock  and  trailed  along 
the  floor  of  the  veranda;  and  the  other  lay  dead  across 
the  heart  that  was  now  stilled  forever.  But  the  moon 
shone  steadily  on  the  white  figure,  and  seemed  reluctant 
to  remove  her  pearly  shroud  of  pure,  white  light  from  the 
couch  of  the  dead  boy. 

"Annie,  Jack  is  dead!"  said  Dion,  after  he  had  bent 
down  and  scrutinized  the  still  face.  And  then  he  went 
away,  sobbing  piteously. 

After  a  time,  Annie  beckoned  to  the  chiefs  of  the  natives 
to  come  nearer;  and  when  she  had  shown  them  the  dead 
boy,  she  bade  them  dismiss  to  their  homes  all  the  tribe, 
except  the  immediate  servants  of  the  household.  These 
latter  gathered  into  the  veranda,  a  silent  and  reverential 
group,  awaiting  orders,  and  looking  on  with  frightened 
faces,  as  if  the  sight  of  a  white  man  dead  had  some  name- 
less terror  for  them.  The  others  glided  silently  away 
into  the  shadows  created  by  the  moonlight;  but  all  night 
long,  the  sound  of  wailing,  like  the  Celtic  caoine,  came 
up  from  the  valley,  and  filled  the  night  with  melancholy 
music;  and  the  howl  of  the  jackal  and  the  jaguar  came 
mournfully  across  the  veldt,  a  weird  accompaniment  to 
human  mourning. 

A  few  days  later,  the  skeleton  of  the  boy,  with  his 
chest  empty  of  life-breathing  lungs,  was  deposited  deep 
in  the  sand  and  loam  in  a  retired  spot  of  the  garden, 
which   his   brother   had   reclaimed   from   Nature.     Still 


452  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

later,  a  stately  marble  mausoleum  was  erected  over  the 
grave;  and  still  later,  Dion,  about  to  bid  farewell  forever 
to  African  skies  and  plains,  gathered  around  the  place 
a  picked  troop  of  native  chieftains,  and  solemnly  entrusted 
that  grave  and  the  sacred  dust  it  contained  to  their  keep- 
ing. He  knew  well  the  trust  would  be  kept;  for  his  last 
words  to  the  good  Padre,  when  he  was  leaving,  were: 

"  Father,  by  all  means,  make  Christians  of  these  poor 
heathens;  but,  for  God's  sake,  don't  civilize  them." 


A 


CHAPTER  XLVI 

The  Trial 

Dick  Duggan  had  been  formally  committed  for  trial; 
and  it  came  off  at  the  summer  assizes  at  Cork  in  that 
year.  It  was  not  a  sensational  case.  No  element  of 
romance  entered  into  it.  It  was  simply  a  trial  for  a 
very  vulgar  murder,  wrought  through  hate  and  revenge. 
But,  as  the  case  had  an  agrarian  aspect,  the  Crown 
attached  some  importance  to  it;  and  the  Solicitor-General 
was  sent  down  from  Dublin  to  prosecute.  The  court 
was  crowded,  although  the  one  element  that  could  excite 
public  curiosity  was  absent.  There  appeared  to  be  no 
doubt  about  the  prisoner's  guilt;  and  therefore,  there 
was  no  room  for  forensic  displays.  There  was  a  foregone 
conclusion  as  to  the  prisoner's  conviction.  Nevertheless, 
as  no  loophole  of  escape  can  be  left  on  such  occasions, 
but  every  web  must  be  tightened  around  the  doomed 
man,  the  Solicitor-General  made  a  most  elaborate  opening 
statement,  showing  that  from  the  beginning  that  deadly 
hate,  which  was  the  final  cause  of  the  dread  tragedy,  was 
not  only  entertained,  but  publicly  avowed  by  the  prisoner. 
The  first  element,  therefore,  of  conviction,  the  establish- 
ment of  a  motive,  was  evident.  Disappointment  about 
the  land,  rage  and  hatred  at  seeing  the  girl,  whom  he 
hoped  to  make  his  wife,  espoused  to  his  enemy,  the  public 
shame  of  defeat  —  all  these  combined  to  offer  the  jury 
every  assurance  of  cogent  motive  for  the  dreadful  crime. 
And,  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  the  learned  counsel 
guaranteed  to  put  before  the  jury  evidence  that  the  pris- 
oner, again  and  again,  publicly  avowed  his  determination 

453 


454  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

to  be  revenged  on  his  supposed  enemy  in  the  one  way 
that  such  natures  seek  revenge  —  that  is,  by  the  com- 
mission of  wilful  and  deliberate  murder. 

The  wretched  prisoner  stood  in  the  dock  with  bowed 
head.  Streaks  of  gray  showed  themselves  in  his  black 
hair,  signs  of  the  terrible  conflict  he  had  waged  with  him- 
self down  there  in  the  narrow  cell  where  he  had  been  con- 
fined. He  never  looked  up  at  judge  or  jury,  but  with 
head  bent  down  he  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of 
despair,  or  sullen  hate.  With  the  greatest  difficulty,  his 
solicitor  coerced  him  to  plead :  Not  guilty !  His  own  wish 
was  to  say  Guilty,  and  to  be  hanged  without  delay.  The 
court  was  crowded  with  witnesses  and  police.  The  aged 
mother  sat  back  amongst  the  audience  —  the  only  person 
in  that  assembly,  who  felt  no  fear,  nor  pity,  because  she 
had  perfect  faith  in  God  and  in  His  priest. 

The  first  witness  called  was  the  Sergeant  of  Police.  He 
testified  that  he  received  information  of  the  murder 
about  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  February  7.  His 
informant  was  a  servant  of  Dr.  Wycherly's.  He  pro- 
ceeded at  once  to  the  place  which  was  about  two  miles 

from  the  town  of  M .     There  in  a  recess  in  the  road, 

the  cob  or  pony  was  still  quietly  grazing.  The  form  of 
a  man  lay  down  over  the  dashboard,  his  head  almost 
touching  the  animal.  He  raised  him  up,  and  saw  at 
once  that  he  was  dead.  There  was  a  blot  of  blood  on 
his  coat.  The  pike,  one  prong  stained  with  blood,  lay 
at  the  bottom  of  the  cart.  He  at  once  with  the  aid  of 
the  constable  arranged  the  dead  body  in  the  cart,  and 
drove  back  to  town,  where  the  body  was  deposited  at 
the  barracks.  From  information  received,  he  proceeded 
at  once  to  take  out  a  warrant  for  the  arrest  of  Dick 
Duggan. 

Cross-examined,  he  testified  that  the  time  in  which  he 
got  notice  of  the  murder  could  not  have  been  earlier 
than  seven  o'clock;  and  that  he  was  at  the  scene  of  the 
murder  at  half-past  seven  o'clock. 

Further  cross-examined,  he  declined  to  give  the  name 


THE  TRIAL  455 

of  his  informant;  but  it  was  a  well-known  fact  that  there 
was  deep  hostility  — 

But  here  he  was  peremptorily  called  to  order  by  counsel 
for  defence,  who  was  supported  by  the  presiding  judge. 

Again,  examined  by  the  Solicitor-General,  he  testified 
that  he  had  proceeded  with  the  warrant  to  Duggan's 
house;  but  having  ascertained  that  he  was  absent  all 
the  evening,  he  and  his  men  hid  themselves  in  the  cow- 
house, and  waited  till  Duggan  arrived. 

"At  what  hour  did  he  arrive?" 

"At  half-past  ten." 

"Did  he  go  straight  to  his  house?". 

"No,  he  came  into  the  barn." 

"What  did  he  do  there?" 

"He  commenced  washing  away  streaks  of  blood  from 
his  face  and  hands,  in  a  huge  boiler  or  cauldron  of  water 
that  was  there." 

"And  then?" 

"Then  I  arrested  him  for  wilful  murder,  and  had  him 
handcuffed." 

"Did  he  resist?" 

"No,  he  submitted  quietly." 

"Did  you  warn  him?" 

"  Yes,  I  warned  him  that  every  word  he  uttered  might 
be  used  in  evidence  against  him." 

"Did  he  make  any  remark  then?" 

"  Yes !  His  first  remark  was :  '  My  God !  did  I  kill  him? ' 
He  then  said:  'I  suppose  I'll  swing  for  it;  but  I  deserve 
it.'  He  wanted  to  go  in  and  see  his  mother;  but  this 
wasn't  allowed." 

Dr.  Dalton  was  called  and  testified  that  he  saw  the 
deceased  in  the  police  office.  He  had  the  body  stripped. 
There  was  a  slight  accumulation  of  blood  on  the  inner 
and  outer  garments  of  the  dead  man.  On  washing  the 
surface  of  the  body  he  discovered  a  wound  over  the  heart, 
such  as  would  be  made  by  a  very  sharp  keen  instrument. 
He  then,  aided  by  another  surgeon.  Dr.  Willis,  opened 
the  body  and  traced  the  wound  through  the  left  ventricle 


456  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

of  the  heart,  severing  many  vessels,  and  terminating  in 
the  apex,  or  first  lobe  of  the  lung  behind.  Death  must 
have  been  instantaneous. 

The  pike  was  produced,  still  blood-stained.  Yes,  that 
pike  was  an  instrument  that  would  cause  such  a  wound. 

Dr.  Willis,  called,  corroborated  the  testimony  of  Dr. 
Dalton.  There  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  cause  of 
death. 

Cross-examined,  he  admitted  that  it  was  perfectly 
possible  the  sad  tragedy  might  have  been  the  result  of 
an  accident.  Such  accidents  are  extremely  common;  and 
if  the  deceased  had  had  a  pike  with  him  in  the  trap,  and 
if  that  pike  had  been  placed  carelessly,  with  the  points 
upwards,  it  is  quite  possible  that  the  deceased,  if  thrown 
forward  by  a  sudden  lurch,  might  have  fallen  on  the  prongs 
of  the  pike,  and  met  his  death.  The  wound  was  lateral 
and  upward.  Examined  by  the  Solicitor-General,  as  to 
whether  the  deceased,  if  he  had  sustained  such  an  acci- 
dent, could  deliberately  withdraw  the  weapon  from  his 
side,  and  place  it  in  the  bottom  of  the  trap,  witness  de- 
clared such  a  thing  impossible,  as  death  must  have  been 
instantaneous. 

Pete,  the  g}'psy,  on  being  sworn  testified  that  he  had 
heard  the  prisoner  say  in  his  own  and  Mr.  Edward 
Wycherly's  presence,  "  By  the  Lord  God,  I'll  make  such  an 
example  of  Kerins  and  all  belonging  to  him,  and  all  that 
has  anything  to  say  or  do  with  him,  that  it  will  be  remem- 
bered in  the  parish,  as  long  as  the  old  castle  stands." 
Mr.  Wycherly  said:  "Take  care,  Duggan,  he  carries  his 
six-shooter  always  about  with  him;  and  a  bullet  goes 
faster  than  a  shillelagh."  Duggan  replied:  "And  there's 
something  that  goes  faster  than  a  bullet,  and  it  makes  no 
noise."  On  another  occasion,  somewhere  about  the  New 
Year,  he  heard  Duggan  say,  in  allusion  to  Kerins's  mar- 
riage: "If  I  thought  that  Martha  Sullivan  would  have 
him,  I'd  think  no  more  of  blowing  out  his  brains  than 
shooting  a  dog."  And  on  another  occasion  he,  the 
prisoner,  asked  witness:  "Couldn't  the  ould  woman  give 


THE  TRIAL  457 

the  girl  something  to  drab,  that  is,  to  poison  her?" 
And  he  replied :  "  We  have  a  bad  name  enough,  but  we've 
always  kept  our  hands  from  blood." 

Cross-examined,  Pete  admitted  that  the  gypsies  had  a 
bad  name  in  the  parish;  but  it  was  not  justified.  He 
was  a  hard-working  tradesman,  a  tinker  if  you  like;  but 
his  mother  told  fortunes,  and  the  people  were  afraid 
of  her. 

Cora,  the  gypsy  girl,  came  on  the  table  with  the  same 
self-assurance  that  always  characterized  her.  She  tossed 
back  her  black  gypsy  locks,  and  sitting  down,  she  placed 
her  elbow  on  her  knee,  and  supported  her  head  on  her 
hand  in  the  old  attitude.  She  testified  that  on  the  29th 
day  of  January  she  was  present  at  the  festivities  in 
Kerins's  house ;  that  in  the  course  of  the  evening  she  was 
called  out  of  the  kitchen  by  Mrs.  Kerins,  and  bade  to 
go  over  to  Duggan's  and  tell  Dick  that  she  wished  to 
see  him  in  the  screen  of  firs  behind  the  house;  that  she 
went  to  Duggan's,  beckoned  Dick  from  the  kitchen,  and 
in  the  yard  told  him  the  message  Mrs.  Kerins  had  sent; 
that  she  hid  herself  in  the  screen;  and  heard  the  conver- 
sation between  Dick  Duggan  and  Mrs.  Kerins;  that  the 
latter  begged  and  implored  him  to  let  bygones  be  bygones ; 
that  he  replied,  "Take  this  from  me,  that  neither  here 
nor  hereafter  will  I  forgive  the  man  that  wronged  me  and 
mine."  Mrs.  Kerins  said:  "The  black  hatred  is  in  your 
heart,  and  all  for  nothing."  He  replied :  "  How  can  I  for- 
give the  man  that  first  took  away  from  me  the  place  I 
wanted  to  bring  you;  and  then  took  you  from  me  in  the 
bargain?  I'll  not  lie  to  you  nor  God.  I've  an  account 
to  settle  with  Kerins;  and  when  it  is  settled,  there  will 
be  no  arrears." 

Cross-examined,  Cora  said  that  she  beckoned  Dick 
from  the  kitchen  by  pulling  his  sleeve.  When  the  counsel 
for  the  prisoner  asked  her  whether  she  was  not  unutter- 
ably mean  to  play  the  spy  in  the  screen,  she  coolly  an- 
swered: "It  was  her  business  to  know  everything";  and 


458  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

then  she  added ; "  You  have  just  reminded  me  that  Duggan, 
before  he  left  the  kitchen,  said  in  answer  to  some  question 
about  the  jolhfication  going  on  at  Crossfields:  'I  guess 
their  ceol  [Music]  will  be  changed  into  keening  soon 
enough.'" 

The  counsel  asked  no  further  questions. 

Then  came  one  of  the  sensations  of  the  trial.  The 
gypsy  gh'l,  on  being  ordered  to  go  down  from  the  witness- 
table,  said  solemnly,  "I  have  sworn  the  truth.  But  it 
wasn't  Dicky  Duggan  that  murdered  Kerins." 

She  was  instantly  ordered  back,  examined  and  cross- 
examined;  but  she  gave  no  information,  beyond  repeating 
her  assertion:  "Dicky  Duggan  is  a  bad  fellow  enough; 
but  he  never  murdered  Kerins." 

Dan  Goggin,  a  sturdy  farmer,  testified  that  he  was  in 
the  public-house  at  the  Cross  the  day  of  the  murder.     He 

was  returning  from  the  fair  at  M .     A  lot  of  farmers 

were  drinking  and  chaffing  Dick  Duggan,  who  had  taken 
drink  but  wasn't  drunk.  He  heard  Duggan  saying: 
"There  may  be  another  dance  at  Crossfields  soon;  and 
the  feet  won't  touch  the  ground  either."  He  also  spoke 
of  a  Banshee  and  a  Caoine. 

The  bar-girl  at  the  public-house  testified  that  Duggan 
had  come  to  the  house  the  day  before  the  murder,  had 
remained  there  talking  and  drinking  all  day.  He  had 
Acveral  times  uttered  terrible  threats  against  Kerins  and 
his  family.  He  was  too  drunk  to  go  home  that  night; 
and  he  slept  at  the  public-house.  Next  day,  he  drank 
again,  but  not  much.     The  farmers  coming  home  from 

the  fair  at  M^ were  chaffing  him  about  the  dance  at 

Kerins's.  He  again  grew  furious  and  threatening,  and 
demanded  more  drink.  This  she  refused,  and  bade  him 
go  home.  At  length,  he  demanded  whiskey  peremp- 
torily, saying:  "Give  it  to  me.  I  have  work  to  do 
to-night!"     He  then  left  the  house. 

Cross-examined,  the  girl  said,  it  could  not  have  been 
earlier  then  half-past  six  when  Duggan  left  the  house, 
because  she  had  heard  the  Angelus-bell  ring  some  time 


THE  TRIAL  459 

before.  Questioned  as  to  where  he  went,  she  declared 
she  had  no  idea.  A  second  question  as  to  what  was  her 
interpretation  of  Duggan's  words:  "I  have  work  to  do 
to-night!"  was  peremptorily  challenged  by  counsel  for 
defence,  and  the  challenge  was  allowed. 

The  Sergeant  of  Police,  recalled,  gave  evidence  that 
Duggan  said  something  about  the  parish  priest  on  his 
way  to  prison;  but  seemed  to  think  it  a  matter  of  no  con- 
sequence that  Kerins  was  killed. 

Finally,  as  if  to  clinch  the  case  against  the  unfortunate 
prisoner,  the  sergeant  swore  that  in  the  early  dawn  of 
the  morning  following  the  murder,  he  had  taken  the 
pike  to  Duggan's  house,  when  it  was  too  dusk  to  notice 
the  blood-stains  on  the  prong;  and  that  old  Duggan  had 
admitted  that  the  pike  was  their  property;  and  that  he 
had  seen  it  last  in  Dick's  hands  the  morning  of  the  day 
previous  to  the  murder,  when  Dick  had  been  cutting 
soil  from  a  rick  of  hay  near  the  road. 

And  thus  a  terrible  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence 
had  been  drawn  around  the  unhappy  criminal,  for  whom 
there  seemed  no  loophole  of  escape.  The  statement  of 
Cora,  the  gypsy  girl,  affected  the  sympathies  of  the  audi- 
ence; but  had  no  effect  on  the  legal  progress  of  the  case. 

The  counsel  for  defence  called  no  witnesses.  He  had 
none  to  call.  The  case  against  the  prisoner  was  over- 
whelming; and  the  prisoner  positively  refused  to  give 
the  least  assistance  towards  establishing  his  innocence. 
His  solicitor  begged,  prayed,  implored  him  to  say  where 
he  had  spent  the  evening,  or  to  give  some  evidence  that 
would  establish  an  alibi;  or  even  to  declare  his  innocence. 
No!  He  maintained  a  stubborn  and  sullen  silence;  and 
neither  the  appeals  of  his  lawyer  nor  the  tearful  expos- 
tulations of  his  friends  had  any  effect  upon  him.  It  was 
quite  clear  to  lawyer  and  counsel,  to  warder  and  jailor, 
that  Dicky  Duggan  would  die  a  felon's  death. 

Half-ashamed  of  the  wretched  defence  he  had  to  make, 
knowing  its  inutility,  and  conscious  of  its  hollowness,  the 
senior  barrister  arose,  and  after  a  few  words,  he  rested 


460  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

the  entire  case  for  the  defence  on  the  evidence  of  the  bar- 
maid, and  the  untrustworthiness  of  the  witnesses.  He 
seemed  to  score  a  point  by  showing  how  utterly  impossible 
it  was  for  the  prisoner  to  reach  the  scene  of  the  murder, 
which  it  was  averred  had  taken  place  before  seven  o'clock 
that  night,  for  the  barmaid  had  sworn  that  he  could 
not  have  left  the  public-house  before  half -past  six;  and 
there  were  four  miles  at  least  between  the  public-house 
and  the  scene  of  the  murder.  He  then  raked  up  in  that 
strong,  vituperative  manner  which  characterizes  the  Bar, 
the  history  and  antecedents  of  the  gypsies;  proved  that 
they  were  utterly  disreputable;  and  volunteered  to  show 
that  they  had  been  expelled  from  Duggan's  house  again 
and  again  for  rude  language  or  conduct,  and  that  they 
had  a  bias  against  the  family.  Finally,  he  developed 
the  sergeant's  evidence,  and  proved  that  the  words  used 
by  Duggan  when  arrested,  manifestly  showed  his  inno- 
cence of  the  crime.  He  wound  up  his  address  by  warning 
the  juiy  of  the  dangers  of  entertaining  merely  circumstan- 
tial evidence;  and  hinted  broadly  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
public  notoriety  that  judicial  murders  had  been  committed 
on  exactly  such  evidence  as  was  now  submitted  to  the  jury. 

The  barmaid,  recalled  again,  swore  that  Duggan  could 
not  have  left  the  house  before  half-past  six  o'clock  that 
evening,  because  the  Angelus-bell  had  rung  out  a  con- 
siderable time  before  he  had  departed. 

The  learned  judge  asked  rather  demurely  what  was 
the  Angelus-bell  to  which  reference  had  been  made  so 
often  during  the  trial. 

The  counsel  for  defence,  who  was  a  Roman  Catholic, 
explained  that  it  was  a  continuation  amongst  a  conser- 
vative people,  and  one  tenacious  of  tradition,  of  the  old 
curfew-bell,  of  which  his  Lordship  had  read. 

"And  at  what  hour  does  the  curfew-bell  ring?"  asked 
the  judge.     "Does  it  not  change  with  the  seasons?" 

But  someone  had  mercifully  passed  on  a  slip  of  paper 
to  counsel,  who  now  declared  with  evident  consciousness 
of  superior  intelligence: 


THE  TRIAL  461 

"No!  my  Lord!"  he  said.  "In  this  country,  it  is 
always  rung  at  six  o'clock  in  the  evening!" 

The  sergeant,  recalled,  stated  that  the  gypsies  were 
utterly  disreputable  characters;  and  that  charges  of 
stealing  fowl,  fortune-telling,  and  other  such  nefarious 
practices  were  often  alleged  against  them. 

"Alleged?"  said  the  Solicitor-General.  "Were  they 
ever  proved,  sergeant?" 

And  the  sergeant  shook  his  head  mournfully.  He 
had  never  secured  a  conviction  against  them. 

He  was  again  interrogated  about  the  prisoner's  language 
when  he  was  arrested;  and  he  admitted  that  the  prisoner 
seemed  surprised  that  it  was  Kerins,  and  not  the  parish 
priest,  who  had  been  killed. 

Again  interrogated,  he  said  he  had  taken  measurements 
of  the  distance  between  the  public-house  and  the  scene  of 
the  murder;  and  found  the  distance  to  be  three  miles, 
seven  furlongs,  three  yards,  and  two  feet, 

"Could  the  prisoner  have  possibly  reached  on  foot  the 
scene  of  the  murder,  if  he  had  not  left  the  public-house 
before  half -past  six?" 

"  No ! "  said  the  sergeant.  "  That  is,  if  the  murder  was 
actua  ly  committed  in  the  spot  where  we  found  the  dead 
man." 

At  which  remark,  the  Solicitor-General  smiled. 

The  prisoner's  father  testified  that  the  gypsies  were 
regarded  as  dishonest  and  disreputable  characters  in  the 
parish;  and  Pete  and  his  daughter  had  been  driven  by 
the  old  woman  from  the  house  for  improper  language 
from  time  to  time. 

"Do  you  believe,"  asked  the  junior  counsel  for  prose- 
cution, "that  they  cherished  any  particular  animosity 
against  your  family,  so  that  they  would  swear  falsely 
against  the  prisoner?" 

And  the  old  man  had  to  answer,  "  No." 

"One  more  question,"  said  counsel.  "I  did  not  intend 
to  ask  you  to  give  evidence  against  your  son;  but  as  the 
opposing  counsel,  my  learned  friend  opposite,  has  put 


462  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

you  in  the  chair,  perhaps  you  would  answer.  Is  that 
pike,"  pointing  to  the  weapon  lying  on  the  table,  the 
one  prong  still  rusty  from  its  ghastly  work,  "  your  prop- 
erty?" 

"  It  is,"  said  the  old  man. 

"In  whose  hands  did  you  last  see  it?" 

"In  my  son's!"  was  the  reply. 

The  old  man  turned  around  and  paused  for  a  few 
seconds,  looking  wistfully  at  his  son.  Then,  brushing 
aside  a  tear,  he  descended  the  steps. 

This  closed  the  evidence;  and  the  junior  counsel  for 
defence  rose  up,  and  pulled  his  gown  over  his  shoulders. 
He  was  a  young  man,  and  therefore  eloquent;  and  as 
he  drew  on  the  vast  resources  of  his  oratory,  a  smile 
rippled  over  the  faces  of  the  older  and  more  prosaic  men. 
He  addressed  himself  to  one  point  only  —  the  danger 
of  convicting  on  circumstantial  evidence,  and  the  awful 
responsibility  entailed  on  the  consciences  of  the  jurors  by 
reason  of  the  fact  that  only  circumstantial  evidence  had 
been  adduced  in  support  of  the  case.  He  insisted 
strongly  that  there  was  some  grave  mystery  hidden  be- 
hind the  apparent  certainties  that  had  been  brought  under 
their  notice;  and  he  quoted  the  saying  of  Cora,  the  gypsy 
girl,  and  her  evident  conviction,  that  notwithstanding  her 
own  evidence  the  prisoner  was  innocent  of  the  crime.  He 
tried  to  torture  the  minds  of  the  jurors  by  the  sugges- 
tion that  if  they  sent  the  prisoner  to  the  gallows,  the 
time  would  come,  when,  under  the  light  of  fresh  reve- 
lations, they  would  look  back  with  remorse  and  horror 
on  the  terrible  miscarriage  of  justice  that  would  be 
perpetrated  that  day,  if  they  brought  in  a  verdict 
of  "Guilty!" 

Then  the  Solicitor-General  arose,  and  in  a  few  words 
tore  into  tatters  the  little  web  of  oratory  which  his  "  very 
young  but  learned  friend"  had  spun  before  their  eyes. 
And  with  a  brevity  that  was  more  alarming,  because 
more  assured  than  the  lengthiest  speech,  he  marshalled 
facts  and  motives,  so  as  to  leave  no  room  whatever  on 


THE  TRIAL  463 

the  mind  of  the  vast  audience  that  filled  the  courthouse, 
of  Dick  Duggan's  guilt. 

The  jurors,  who  shuffled  uneasily  under  the  infliction 
of  the  speech  for  the  defence,  looked  relieved  at  the 
brevity  of  the  prosecuting  counsel's  address.  Their 
minds  were  evidently  made  up.  'Ihey  seemed  to  wait 
impatiently  for  the  judge's  final  charge. 


CHAPTER  XLVII 

An    Apparition 

During  the  terrible  tragedy,  the  old  woman  sat  back 
amongst  the  benches  behind  the  dock.  Her  face  was 
nearly  covered  by  the  hood  of  the  black  cloak  that  she 
had  worn  since  her  marriage.  Her  white  cap,  frilled 
and  ironed,  shone  beneath  it;  but  her  face  was  shrouded 
as  if  with  the  shame  and  pain  of  the  ordeal  through 
which  she  was  passing.  She  was  rolling  her  beads  through 
her  fingers  during  the  trial;  and  seemed,  in  her  communion 
with  God,  to  be  oblivious  of  all  around  her.  But  when 
the  final  crisis  was  approaching,  she  raised  her  head, 
and  looked  ever  and  again  anxiously  toward  the  door 
of  the  court.  But  her  heart  fell,  when  the  crowd  seemed 
to  thicken,  as  the  trial  progressed,  and  no  messenger 
from  God  appeared  to  rekindle  her  hopes,  or  reassure 
her  faith.  Yet  these  hopes  smouldered  on,  until  the 
final  appeal,  absolute  and  convincing,  was  made;  and 
the  judge,  with  all  the  solemnity  of  his  high  office  in- 
creased by  the  gravity  of  the  case,  proceeded  to  reca- 
pitulate and  sift  the  evidence  before  him. 

He  commenced  at  once  by  laying  down  the  law  about 
circumstantial  evidence,  endorsing  the  remarks  of  the 
prosecuting  counsel,  that  in  very  few  cases  was  a  murderer 
caught  red-handed  in  his  guilt,  and  that  thus  justice 
would  be  completely  frustrated,  if  convictions  could  not 
be  obtained  on  circumstantial  evidence.  That  evidence, 
however,  should  be  of  a  nature  that  would  make  guilt 
a  moral  certainty  —  a  clear,  logical  deduction  from  facts 
and  motives  converging  toward  a  final  issue.  If  this 
chain  of  facts  and  motives   lacked  one   link,  the   pre- 

464 


AN   APPARITION  465 

sumption  should  be  in  the  prisoner's  favour.  If  the  chain 
were  complete,  it  was  equivalent  to  direct  evidence;  and 
the  presumption  of  guilt  became  a  certainty.  It  was 
for  the  jury  to  consider  and  weigh  the  evidence  in  the 
present  case,  with  a  view  of  determining  whether,  in  their 
judgment,  the  alleged  conversations  and  facts  tended  to 
produce  not  only  a  prima  facie  case  against  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar;  but  also  an  absolute  conviction  that  this 
brutal  murder,  by  which  an  innocent  man  lost  his  life 
in  a  violent  and  savage  manner,  was  perpetrated  by  the 
unhappy  man  in  the  dock,  and  by  no  one  else. 

He  then  went  into  the  evidence,  word  by  word,  and 
fact  by  fact,  referring  to  his  notes,  which  he  had  care- 
fully taken  down.  On  the  question  of  motive  and  the 
repeated  declarations  of  the  prisoner  that  he  would  seek 
to  be  revenged  on  the  murdered  man,  there  appeared  to 
be  no  room  for  doubt;  for  if  the  evidence  of  the  gypsies 
were  discredited,  there  was  still  supplementary  evidence 
that  the  prisoner  did  threaten  violence,  or  rather  a  violent 
death,  against  the  murdered  man  repeatedly.  The  evi- 
dence again  as  to  the  ownership  of  the  pike,  the  instru- 
ment of  the  murder,  was  unassailable.  But  there  were 
two  points  that  needed  clearing  up.  These  were  the 
strange  expressions  used  by  the  prisoner  to  the  Sergeant  of 
Police  who  arrested  him,  and  in  which  he  seemed  to  have 
expected  the  death  of  his  parish  priest,  and  not  of  Kerins; 
and  the  evidence  of  the  barmaid  that  he  could  not  have  left 
the  public-house  before  half-past  six  on  the  night  of  the 
murder;  and  the  evidence  of  the  police  that  it  was  about 
seven  o'clock  when  the  intimation  of  the  tragedy  reached 
them.  It  was  for  the  jury  to  determine  whether  it  was 
possible  for  the  prisoner  to  cover  four  miles  of  ground 
and  perpetrate  an  atrocious  crime  within  that  interval; 
or  whether  they  would  accept  the  theory  of  the  Crown 
that  the  murder  was  committed  much  nearer  the  public- 
house,  and  the  body  driven  towards  the  town  with  a 
view  of  screening  the  murderer.  It  was  most  unfortunate, 
the  judge  added,  that  no  evidence  was  adduced  by  the 
31 


466  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

defence  to  show  the  whereabouts  of  the  prisoner  that 
night;  but  the  jury  would  now  have  to  determine  whether 
these  varied  circumstances  brought  home  guilt  to  the 
prisoner  in  the  dock,  or  whether  there  was  still  a  grave 
doubt  as  to  his  connection  with  the  murder.  The  respon- 
sibility of  determining  his  guilt  or  innocence  was  probably 
the  greatest  that  could  be  laid  on  the  consciences  of  men ; 
and  he  conjured  them  to  bring  to  their  consideration  of 
the  case  an  unbiassed  and  unprejudiced  judgment,  not 
leaning  to  the  side  of  justice  by  any  presumptions  of 
guilt,  nor  to  the  side  of  mercy  by  any  false  notions  of 
pity;  but  examining  patiently  and  minutely  the  evidence 
and  arguments  on  both  sides,  and  bringing  in  their  ver- 
dict, fearless  of  any  consequences  but  the  violation  of 
their  solemn  oaths. 

Here  the  jury  retired,  and  the  judge  also  arose.  It 
was  noticed  that  as  he  did  so,  he  leaned  down,  and  seemed 
to  be  searching  for  something,  or  placing  something  near 
his  hand ;  and  the  whisper  ran  around  the  court : 

"He's  lookin'  for  the  black  cap!" 

But  all  public  interest  was  now  more  keenly  aroused, 
when  the  prisoner's  mother,  suddenly  standing  up  in  her 
place  in  the  court,  and  flinging  back  the  quilted  hood 
of  her  black  cloak,  shouted  passionately  as  she  stretched 
her  right-hand  toward  the  door: 

"Make  way,  there:  make  way  there,  I  say,  for  the 
minister  of  God,  who  is  come  to  save  my  child!" 

She  stood  rigid  as  a  statue,  her  right-hand  extended 
toward  the  door,  where  now  was  distinctly  seen  above 
the  heads  of  the  multitude  the  pale  face  darkened  by 
the  deep-blue  spectacles  of  Dr.  William  Gray.  He  was 
pushing  his  way  slowly  through  the  dense  mass  of  people, 
who  surged  around  him  and  helped  to  block  his  way  in 
their  new  excitement.  The  judge  paused,  and  sat  down. 
The  crier  yelled:  "Silence!"  which  the  police  repeated 
from  man  to  man,  till  it  died  away  in  an  echo  at  the  door; 
and  at  length  by  dint  of  pushing  and  elbowing,  the  tall 
figure  of    the  great  priest   came   round  the    dock,  and 


AN  APPARITION  467 

approached  the  place  where  the  counsel  and  solicitors  for 
the  defence  were  sitting.  Here  there  was  a  hurried  con- 
ference, pens  and  pencils  flying  furiously  over  sheets  of 
paper,  while  the  deepest  silence  reigned  in  court,  and  the 
judge  looked  down  interested  and  curious,  and  the  counsel 
for  the  Crown  looked  anxious  and  amazed. 

At  length,  the  leading  barrister  for  the  defence  arose, 
and  said: 

"An  unexpected  circumstance  has  arisen  in  the  case, 
my  Lord;  and  I  request  permission  to  have  the  jury 
recalled  for  a  few  moments." 

The  Solicitor-General  at  once  protested  vigorously. 

"The  case  is  closed,  my  Lord,"  he  said.  "The  fullest 
time  was  given  to  the  gentlemen  in  charge  of  the  defence 
to  summon  witnesses  in  the  prisoner's  favour.  I  presume 
the  reverend  gentleman,  who  has  just  appeared  in  court, 
is  about  to  give  evidence  as  to  character.  That  can  be 
done  when  the  juiy  have  brought  in  their  verdict.  I 
totally  object  to  have  the  case  opened  again." 

"  It  is  certainly  unusual  and  irregular,  Mr. ,"  said 

the  judge,  addressing  the  counsel  for  the  defence,  "  to 
have  the  case  reopened  when  the  jury  are  consulting 
about  their  verdict.  But,  perhaps,  you  would  acquaint 
the  court  with  the  nature  of  the  circumstance  to  which 
you  have  alluded,  and  its  bearing  on  the  case?" 

"Certainly,  my  Lord,"  said  the  lawyer.  "This  gentle- 
man. Dr.  William  Gray,  late  parish  priest  of  the  place 
where  the  murder  was  committed,  has  come  hither  at 
great  inconvenience  to  testify  that  on  the  night  of  the 
murder,  the  prisoner  was  at  his  house  at  seven  o'clock, 
and  this  proves  so  complete  an  alibi,  that  I  demand  the 
prisoner's  immediate  discharge." 

"  Why  was  not  the  reverend  gentleman  here  at  the 
earlier  stages  of  the  trial?"  demanded  the  judge. 

"  He  was  fully  prepared  to  come,"  was  the  answer, 
"but  he  lost  his  train,  and  hastened  hither  by  car.  The 
evidence  is  so  important  that  it  cannot  be  overlooked." 

It  was  quite  true  the  old  priest  had  missed  his  train; 


468  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

and  in  an  agony  of  remorse  had  hurried  hither,  driving 
his  horse  furiously  the  thirty  miles  that  lay  between  his 
house  and  the  City.  Ever  since  the  murder,  or  rather 
since  the  committal  of  Duggan,  his  mind  had  been  the 
prey  of  unusual  emotions.  The  sense  of  shame  and 
personal  dishonour  for  having  used  physical  violence 
toward  an  illiterate  peasant,  gradually  developed  into  a 
feeling  of  compassion  for  his  victim;  and  when  the  latter 
lay  under  the  frightful  charge  of  murder,  this  sentiment 
of  pity  was  deepened  and  intensified,  until  it  almost 
took  on  the  aspect  of  the  pity  of  great  love.  Duggan's 
demeanour,  too,  since  the  blow  fell  upon  him  —  his  total 
change  of  manner,  his  silence,  and,  above  all,  his  intense 
remorse  and  despair  for  having  struck  a  priest,  touched 
the  old  man  deeply.  His  was  one  of  those  dispositions 
that  are  as  hard  as  granite  toward  the  proud  and  the 
obstinate,  but  are  instantly  melted  into  compassion  at 
the  first  indication  of  sorrow  or  remorse.  Hence,  as 
reports  daily  reached  his  ears  of  Duggan's  manifest  con- 
trition and  horror  at  his  conduct,  he  grew  more  deeply 
interested  in  his  case,  and  what  he  had  originally  deter- 
mined to  do  through  a  mere  sense  of  justice,  he  now 
determined  to  accomplish  thoroughly  through  a  new- 
born and  affectionate  interest  in  the  unhappy  man. 
Perhaps,  too,  the  revelation  was  opening  up  wider  and 
wider  to  his  view,  that  he  had  badly  blundered  during 
life  by  mis  aking  the  lower  laws,  which  serve  to  bind 
society  together,  for  the  higher  law  that  sweetens  and 
strengthens  all  human  life;  and  looking  back  on  his 
ministry  of  a  quarter  of  a  century,  he  began  to  see  that 
its  fruits  would  have  been  greater,  if  he  had  taken  more 
deeply  to  heart  the  Divine  Words:  "A  new  commandment 
I  give  you." 

It  is  easy,  therefore,  to  conjecture  his  agitation  and 
terror,  when,  on  the  morning  of  the  trial,  having  dressed 
with  unusual  care,  he  drove  to  the  railway  station  to 
find  that  the  only  train  that  would  reach  Cork  for  hours, 
had  already  departed.     He  had  an  idea  of  going  to  the 


AN   APPARITION  469 

City  the  night  before;  but  the  dread  of  meeting  people, 
and  sleeping  in  a  strange  room,  deterred  him.  Now, 
half-mad  with  the  terror  of  thinking  that  the  life  of  his 
unhappy  parishioner  might  be  lost  through  his  neglect, 
for  he  felt,  with  a  pang  of  reproach,  how  inexorable  was 
the  law,  he  determined  to  drive  straight  to  the  City, 
taking  his  chances  of  being  in  time. 

"She'll  never  do  it,  yer  reverence,"  said  the  jarvey, 
whose  horse  he  had  hired,  and  who  did  not  relish  the  idea 
of  driving  thirty  miles  a:  a  furious  rate  of  speed. 

"If  she  is  killed,  I'll  pay  you,"  was  the  answer.  And 
so  he  reached  the  courthouse  as  the  jury  retired;  and  the 
big  beads  of  perspiration  on  his  forehead,  and  the  tremu- 
lous motions  of  his  hands,  showed  the  tremendous  agony 
through  which  he  had  passed. 

After  a  good  deal  of  forensic  sparring,  the  judge  re- 
called the  jury;  and  the  aged  priest  was  helped  into  the 
witness-box.  He  was  sworn,  and  gave  his  name  as  Dr. 
William  Gray,  late  parish  priest  of  the  united  parishes 
of  Doonvarragh,  Lackagh,  and  Athboy;  but  now  retired. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  evening  of  February  the  seventh 
in  the  present  year?"  he  was  asked. 

"Yes!"  he  replied. 

"Would  you  detail  the  circumstances  that  brought 
you  into  connection  with  the  prisoner  that  night?" 

"I  was  in  my  room  that  night,  the  room  which  serves 
me  as  library  and  sitting-room,  when  a  single  knock  was 
heard  at  the  door.  My  housekeeper  announced  that 
Duggan  wished  to  see  me,  adding  that  he  seemed  under 
the  influence  of  drink.  I  went  into  the  hall;  and  he  at 
once  made  a  most  insulting  observation  —  " 

"Would  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  the  jury  what  it 
was?" 

"Is  it  necessary?"  the  priest  asked,  in  a  pleading 
manner. 

"Yes!     It  is  necessary!" 

The  priest  waited  for  a  moment,  as  if  summoning  up 
courage  to  bear  this  latest  trial;  and  then  said: 


470  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"He  said:  'I  wants  to  ask  you  a  question.  Why 
didn't  you  denounce  from  the  altar  your  niece  for  eloping 
with  young  Wycherly,  when  you  never  spared  any  poor 
girl  before? '  These  might  not  have  been  his  exact  words, 
but  they  were  the  equivalent." 

"Very  good.     And  then?" 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  lost  temper  and  caught 
hold  of  him  violently  by  the  neck-cloth,  and  pushed  him 
against  the  wall,  or  the  door  of  the  opposite  room.  In 
an  agony  of  rage,  or  perhaps  to  defend  himself,  he  struck 
me  with  his  left-hand  full  on  the  forehead,  breaking  my 
glasses.     These  are  the  marks." 

And  he  raised  his  blue  spectacles  to  show  the  faint 
scars  where  the  steel  of  the  broken  one  had  pene- 
trated. 

There  was  some  sensation  in  court  here;  and  the  old 
woman  muttered  aloud: 

"The  blagard!     Hanging  is  too  good  for  him  now!" 

"I  then  swung  him  round  and  round  the  hall," 
continued  the  priest,  "  and  finally  flung  him  out  through 
the  open  door,  where  he  lay  face  down  on  the  gravel. 
I  locked  and  bolted  the  door;  and  gave  the  matter  no 
further  heed.  It  was  only  when  I  was  retiring  to  rest 
at  ten  o'clock,  that  I  heard  him  raise  himself  from  the 
gravel  before  the  hall-door,  and  go  away." 

"Can  you  state  exactly  the  hour  when  all  this  oc- 
curred?" asked  counsel. 

"Yes!  The  clock  on  my  mantelpiece  was  just  chiming 
seven,  when  I  returned  to  my  room." 

"Is  your  clock  correct?"  asked  the  judge. 

"Absolutely,"  said  the  priest. 

"Did  you  read  the  dial;  for  perhaps  it  might  oc- 
cur that  the  hours  are  not  struck  according  to  the 
figures." 

"No!  I'm  blind!"  was  the  mournful  admission;  and 
a  murmur  of  sympathy  seemed  to  run  through  the  court. 
"But  there  can  be  no  doubt  of  the  hour.  The  clock  is 
absolutely  correct." 


AN   APPARITION  471 

"And  presuming  that  this  is  so,  what  is  the  exact 
distance  between  the  presbytery  and  the  public-house?" 

"A  little  over  two  miles!"  he  said. 

"  And  would  it  be  humanly  possible  for  a  man  to  trav- 
erse the  road  to  M ,  a  distance  of  four  miles,  commit 

a  murder  with  all  its  ghastly  details,  return  to  the  Cross, 
and  walk  two  miles  towards  your  house  in  the  space  of 
less  than  half  an  hour?" 

"That  question  answers  itself,"  said  the  priest. 

He  was  then  cross-examined. 

"  You  are  no  longer  parish  priest  of  Doonvarragh,  and 
the  other  unnameable  places?" 

"No!     I'm  retired!" 

"And  you  came  here  to-day  to  do  a  good  turn  for 
your  old  friends?" 

"I  came  to  testify  the  truth.  Duggan  was  my  worst 
enemy." 

"And  a  thoroughly  and  essentially  bad  character,  I 
presume?" 

"No!  He  is  hot-headed  and  turbulent,  especially  in 
drink;  and  he  is  a  loud  boaster.  But  he  is  incapable  of 
committing  a  great  crime." 

"Now,  sir,  you  have  said  that  the  clock  was  chiming 
'seven'  when  you  returned  to  your  room?" 

"Yes!" 

"Now,  don't  you  think  it  very  unlikely  that  in  the 
state  of  high  excitement  in  which  you  were  after  your 
alleged  rencontre  with  the  prisoner,  you  would  count 
the  strokes  of  a  clock?" 

"I  didn't  count  them,"  said  the  priest. 

"Then  why  did  you  swear  the  clock  was  chiming 
'seven'?" 

"Because  the  clock  had  struck  six,  quarter  after  six, 
half -past  six,  the  three-quarters;  and  I  knew  I  was  in 
the  hall  only  a  few  minutes." 

"  I  see.  And  you  also  allege  that  the  prisoner  remained 
on  your  gravel  walk  prostrate  for  three  hours.  Do  you 
think  that  credible;  or  were  you  not  deceived?" 


472  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Not  in  the  least.  He  was  more  than  half -drunk;  1 
swung  him  and  threw  him  with  much  violence.  No  one 
else  could  be  in  the  vicinity  at  such  an  hour." 

"I  have  no  more  to  ask,"  said  counsel.  "It  is  for 
your  Lordship  to  say  to  the  jury,  how  far  they  can  accept 
such  evidence  against  the  overwhelming  case  against  the 
prisoner." 

"One  question  more,"  said  the  judge.  "You  aver 
that  the  prisoner  fell  face  downwards  on  the  gravel,  and 
remained  there?" 

"Yes!" 

"And  that  he  was  flung  with  much  violence?" 

"I'm  sorry  to  say,  Yes!" 

"There  can  be  no  doubt,  gentlemen,"  said  the  judge, 
turning  toward  the  jury,  "that  the  evidence  of  the  rev- 
erend gentleman  puts  this  case  in  a  different  aspect.  It 
supplies  the  information,  sullenly  withheld  by  the  pris- 
oner, as  to  his  movements  after  leaving  the  public- 
house.  It  also  goes  far  towards  explaining  the  nature 
of  the  blood-stains  which  the  prisoner  was  striving  to 
wash  away  when  arrested  in  the  cow-house;  and  it  also 
seems  to  explain  the  strange  language  used  by  the  pris- 
oner when  arrested,  when  he  expressed  his  horror  on 
supposing  that  his  parish  priest  had  been  murdered,  and 
his  subsequent  unconcern  when  he  found  it  was  Kerins. 
When  he  said:  'Is  he  dead?  I  suppose'^I'll  swing  for  it,' 
it  was  clearly  under  the  conviction  that  the  blow  which 
he  had  struck  in  the  hall  of  the  presbytery  had  had  fatal 
consequences.  And  when  he  said  subsequently:  'Kerins? 
Is  that  all?'  it  may  have  expressed  his  sense  of  relief 
that  the  death  of  his  priest  was  not  upon  his  soul.  Of 
course,  it  is  for  you  to  determine  the  value  you  place 
on  the  reverend  gentleman's  testimony,  which,  as  you 
have  perceived,  involved  revelations  personal  to  himself, 
which  must  have  been  very  humiliating.  You  will  also 
notice  the  trouble  and  inconvenience  to  which  an  old, 
infirm,  and  blind  clergyman  has  put  himself  voluntarily 


AN  APPARITION  473 

in  order  to  save  the  life  of  one  who  was  persistently  and 
cruelly  hostile  to  him.  Yet,  sympathy  with  such  hero- 
ism must  not  blind  you  to  the  other  facts  put  into  evi- 
dence by  the  Crown.  The  admission  that  the  weapon 
that  caused  death  was  the  property  of  the  prisoner,  and 
seen  last  in  his  possession  by  his  own  father,  tells  terribly 
against  him  —  " 

"Maybe  the  pike  was  stolen  for  the  purpose?"  said  a 
shrill  voice  from  the  place  where  the  witnesses  of  the 
Crown  were  marshalled  behind  the  Crown  counsel. 

All  eyes  turned  in  that  direction  and  saw  Cora,  the 
gypsy  girl,  in  her  favourite  attitude,  elbow  on  knee,  and  her 
chin  resting  on  her  hand,  and  her  great  black  eyes  calmly 
surveying  the  vast  multitude  that  filled  the  court. 

"Remove  that  girl  instantly!"  shouted  the  judge;  and 
Cora  was  hustled  ignominiously  out  of  court.  But  the 
judge  was  disconcerted,  and  wound  up  his  address  to 
the  jury  by  briefly  saying: 

"  All  these  things  are  now  subjects  for  your  deliberation, 
gentlemen.  You  will  please  retire  again;  and  may  the 
God  of  Truth  and  Justice  guide  your  decision." 

The  judge  descended  from  the  bench;  the  jury  retired; 
but  in  less  than  ten  minutes  returned  with  their  verdict. 
The  judge  was  recalled,  and  resumed  his  seat;  and  the 
stillness  and  silence  of  death  fell  upon  the  court. 

"Have  you  agreed  to  your  verdict,  gentlemen?"  said 
the  clerk  of  the  court. 

"Yes!"  replied  the  foreman,  handing  down  his  paper. 

"  You  find  that  the  prisoner,  Richard,  alias  Dick  Duggan, 
is  NOT  GUILTY  of  the  murder  of  Edward  Kerins?" 

"Yes!"  was  the  reply. 

A  sigh  of  relief  was  whispered  through  the  court.  The 
judge  said: 

"  I  thoroughly  agree  with  your  verdict,  although  the  case 
lies  enshrouded  in  mystery.     The  prisoner  is  discharged ! " 

A  roar  of  triumph  shook  the  building,  and  caught  up 
by  the  multitude  waiting  outside,  was  carried  down  along 
the  street. 


474  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

Dazed  and  stupid,  Dick  Duggan  was  led  from  the  dock; 
and  his  arms  were  half  torn  from  their  sockets  by  hand- 
shakings and  congratulations.  Then  it  was  remembered 
that  his  mother  had  the  first  right  to  see  him  and  embrace 
him,  and  he  was  led  through  the  crowd  to  where  she  was 
sitting.  She  had  been  crying  with  deHght  and  happiness; 
but  when  her  son  was  brought  to  her,  she  looked  at  him 
sternly,  instead  of  embracing  him  on  his  rescue  from  a 
horrible  and  shameful  death,  and  sternly  said: 

"Is  it  thrue  what  the  priesht  said,  that  you  struck 
him,  that  you  dar  lay  your  hands  on  the  ministher  of 
God?" 

"Lave  the  poor  fellow  alone,  Mrs.  Duggan,"  said  the 
more  compassionate  neighbours.  "  He  has  gone  through 
enough  already." 

But  this  would  not  do.  She  pushed  the  poor  fellow 
before  her  rudely,  and  forced  him  on  his  knees  before  the 
priest,  who  was  still  communing  with  the  lawyers. 

"  Go  down  on  your  two  knees,"  she  said,  "  and  ask 
pardon  of  God  and  the  minister  of  God  for  what  you 
done." 

The  old  priest  turned  around,  and  groping  in  the  air, 
he  laid  his  hand  at  last  on  the  thick  black  hair  of  the 
unhappy  culprit. 

"There  'tis  all  right,  now,  Mrs.  Duggan,"  he  said, 
"Dick  will  be  a  good  boy  for  evermore." 

But  the  old  woman,  lifting  up  her  face  and  hands 
toward  heaven,  cried: 

"Oh,  vo,  vo,  vo,  vo!  And  to  think  the  people  never 
knew  you  till  they  lost  you!" 

And  the  priest  heard  the  echo  in  his  own  heart: 

"Oh  woe,  woe!  And  I  never  knew  the  people  till  I 
lost  them!" 

He  would  have  gladly  escaped  now  from  the  crowd  that 
still  filled  the  street,  but  he  had  to  make  his  way  slowly 
through  them ;  and  he  had  an  ovation  a  king  might  envy, 
as  he  forged  his  way  with  difficulty  to  the  car  that  was 


AN   APPARITION  475 

to  bear  him  to  the  railway  station.  And  as  he  went, 
he  saw  through  his  bUndness  the  dark  ramparts  and 
sullen  fortifications  with  which  society  seeks  to  save  it- 
self from  itself,  slowly  crumble  and  fall,  and  above  in 
the  empyrean,  the  Eternal  Star  of  Love  shine  liquid  and 
resplendent. 


I 


CHAPTER   XLVIII 

"It  is  the  Law" 

The  murder  of  Ned  Kerins,  as  the  judge  said,  remained 
shrouded  in  mystery.  Not  the  slightest  suspicion  at- 
tached to  the  gypsy,  although  it  was  commonly  surmised 
from  the  remarks  of  the  gypsy  girl,  that  the  tribe  knew 
more  than  they  cared  to  reveal.  And  one  morning, 
Dunkerrin  Castle,  the  old  keep  down  by  the  sea,  was  un- 
tenanted again.  In  the  midnight  a  strange  hulk  loomed 
up  over  the  waters  far  out  at  sea;  and  a  couple  of  boats 
containing  the  gypsy  family  and  all  their  belongings  shot 
alongside.  The  boats  were  rowed  homewards  empty  by 
one  man,  who  soon  after  disappeared;  and  a  few  rags  of 
wretched  bedding,  and  some  broken  tins  alone  marked 
the  place  where  the  uncanny  people  had  dwelt.  They 
carried  their  secret  with  them. 

One  alone  seemed  to  divine  what  had  happened.  That 
was  Dick  Duggan,  and  he  held  his  peace.  He  was  now 
a  changed  man.  All  the  fierce  violence  of  his  nature 
had  culminated  and  broken  out  on  that  night  when  he 
had  committed  the  unpardonable  crime  of  laying  hands 
on  a  priest;  and  he  was  smitten,  as  we  have  seen,  with  a 
sudden  remorse,  that  seemed  to  have  opened  up  the  dark 
gulf  of  his  life,  and  shown  him  all  its  horrors.  It  was  no 
passing  contrition,  therefore,  that  made  him  wish  for 
death,  when  death  stared  him  in  the  face;  but  a  desire 
to  make  atonement  for  a  great  crime,  and  to  escape  the 
odium  and  shame  that  attached  to  it.  And  now  that  he 
was  saved  from  an  ignominious  death  by  the  very  man 
he  had  pursued  with  such  hatred  during  many  years  of 
his  life,  his  character  underwent  one  of  those  sudden 

476 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  477 

transformations  that  may  be  witnessed  in  strong  and 
turbulent  natures  under  the  visitation  of  great  trial. 
Dick  Duggan  became  a  model  man.  All  the  riotous 
fun  and  fierceness  of  his  disposition  gave  way  under  a 
subdued  and  solemn  melancholy,  which  would  have  been 
a  subject  for  Celtic  jests  and  laughter,  but  that  the  tragedy 
of  his  life  was  so  well  known.  He  worked  late  and  early 
at  the  farm;  was  assiduous  in  the  performance  of  his 
religious  duties;  was  respectful  and  helpful  to  the  priests. 
And  gradually,  the  old-time  intimacy  with  Martha  Kerins 
began  to  be  resumed.  For  she  was  young  and  a  widow, 
and  inexperienced ;  and  she  needed  advice  about  the  buy- 
ing and  selling  of  cattle,  the  rotation  of  crops,  etc. ;  and  her 
people  were  far  away,  and  Dick  Duggan  was  so  often  only 
on  the  other  side  of  the  ditch,  and  it  became  so  easy  to 
consult  him.  And  Dick  was  very  obliging  and  courteous, 
and  had  forsworn  drink,  and  therefore  had  a  clear  head; 
and  so  things  went  on,  until  one  day  it  suddenly  dawned 
on  him  that  he  might  become  master  of  the  coveted 
Crossfields  for  the  asking.  And  he  did  ask,  and  was 
accepted.  There  was  some  reclamation  on  the  part  of 
her  friends,  not  because  of  Dick's  antecedents,  but  because 
he  had  no  means  or  money;  but  Martha,  like  every  good 
woman,  had  a  will  of  her  own,  and  she  duly  asserted  it. 
Her  first  husband,  by  the  marriage  settlement,  had 
left  everything  to  her;  and  she  used  her  own  discretion 
in  disposing  of  it. 

So  peace  settled  down  on  the  united  parishes  of 
Doonvarragh,  Lackagh,  and  Athboy  —  peace  after  a 
turbulent  and  trying  time.  But  their  priests  were  gone 
—  and  there  was  shame  in  the  hearts  of  the  people  for 
many  a  long  day. 

Henry  Liston,  who  was  in  thorough  touch  and  sym- 
pathy with  his  pastor  during  all  the  troublous  time, 
could  not  remain  in  the  parish  after  him.  He  argued. 
If  one  so  great  and  good,  one,  too,  who  so  loved  his 
people  that  he  would  have  died  for  them,  found  yet  but 


478  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

disappointment  in  life  and  ingratitude  in  human  hearts, 
what  could  a  weakling,  like  himself,  expect?  No.  He 
felt  he  was  not  made  for  the  rough  play  and  tumble  of 
life,  and  he  sought  peace.  Besides,  certain  letters  em- 
anating from  that  far-off  convent,  where  the  sisters, 
when  they  were  hungry,  pulled  the  convent  bell  for  food, 
and  sat  on  the  bare  floor  while  eating  it,  began  to  reveal 
to  him  many  things.  And  amongst  the  rest!  this.  That, 
amidst  all  the  "storm  and  stress"  of  modern  life,  the 
cries  and  creaking  of  the  chariots  of  Progress  on  their 
way  toward  some  final  goal,  which  no  man  sees  or  fore- 
sees, and  the  frantic  appeals  to  the  Church  and  her  priests 
to  come  out  of  the  sanctuary,  and  put  their  shoulders 
to  the  chariot-wheels  that  are  forever  sinking  into  the 
ruts  of  revolution,  perhaps  there  might  be  a  few  souls, 
who,  unpossessed  of  the  physical  or  intellectual  strength 
that  is  the  first  factor  in  modern  progress,  might  go  aside, 
and  help  a  little  by  lifting  their  hands  in  prayer  to  the 
Unseen  Powers,  that  have  more  to  say  in  the  direction 
of  human  events  than  the  progressivists  and  utilitarians 
of  the  age  will  allow.  And  so,  he  sought  peace  for  him- 
self and  power  for  many  in  a  quiet  little  monastery, 
where  there  was  no  activity,  no  machinery,  no  economic 
problems  to  solve;  only  the  old-fashioned  and  completely 
out  of  date  routine,  day  by  day,  and  night  by  night,  of 
fasting,  contemplation,  prayer.  And  there,  under  the 
name  of  Father  Alexis,  he  lived  as  unknown  and  unno- 
ticed as  the  Saint  whose  name  he  was  elected  to  bear. 

But  the  shame  on  the  hearts  of  the  people  was  greatest 
for  their  pastor,  whom  they  felt  they  had  expelled  and 
driven  forth  from  amongst  them.  He  had  taken  a  long, 
low-roofed  cottage  in  another  parish,  about  a  mile  to 
the  west  of  the  place  where  he  had  ministered  for  a  quarter 
of  a  century.  A  little  suite  of  three  rooms  ran  in  front 
of  the  house;  beyond  was  a  potato-patch  badly  cultivated 
and  showing  but  dockweeds  and  thistles.  Beyond  the 
fence  of  the  potato-patch  were  great  sand-dunes,  where 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  479 

the  sea-thistles  grew  in  profusion;  and  these  sloped  down 
into  a  firm,  glistening,  sandy  beach,  where  the  waves 
thundered  at  high-tide,  and  the  sea-swallows  perched  at 
the  ebb  of  the  waters  to  watch  and  capture  their  living 
food.  All  the  rooms  faced  the  sea;  and  there  he  fell 
asleep  on  wintry  nights,  lulled  by  the  soft  splash  of  the 
waves,  or  rejoicing  in  their  thunder-voices;  and  on  the 
long  summer  days  he  sat  outside  on  a  rude  bench,  fanned 
by  the  sea-breezes,  or  warmed  by  the  sun.  And  here 
one  day,  there  stole  across  the  sands,  and  across  the  potato- 
patch,  and  into  the  kitchen  that  very  Annie  who,  he 
almost  swore  in  his  wrath,  should  never  come  under  his 
roof-tree  again. 

It  was  the  autumn  time,  and  she  and  Dion  had  been  at 
home  for  a  few  days  only,  when  the  terrible  aching  at  her 
heart  to  see  her  suffering  and  abandoned  uncle  compelled 
her  to  set  aside  every  feeling  of  dread,  and  brave  the 
chances  of  rejection.  For  she  did  not  know,  how  could 
she?  of  the  mighty  change  that  had  been  wrought  in  his 
heart;  and  she  pictured  in  her  girlish  imagination  her 
uncle  as  she  had  first  seen  him,  tall  and  powerful  and 
imposing,  his  gray  eyes  scanning  her  face,  and  his  aqui- 
line features  softening  under  the  tenderness  of  a  first 
greeting.  And  in  her  ears  were  echoing  (they  never  ceased 
to  echo)  the  sharp  and  bitter  words  with  which  he  pro- 
nounced the  sentence  of  her  expulsion,  and  bade  her  never 
dream  of  seeing  him  again.  How  could  she  know,  that 
his  heart,  too,  was  aching  after  her?  How  could  she  hear 
him  call  "Annie!"  in  the  midnight,  when  no  voice  came 
in  response  save  the  soft  or  hoarse  whispers  of  the  deep? 

She  stood  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  the  old  housekeeper 
almost  fainted  when  she  saw  her.  Then  there  were  greet- 
ings and  questions  in  hushed  tones;  and  there  were  tears 
over  a  past  that  was  sombre  enough  to  the  eyes  of  both 
women. 

A  hundred  times  Annie  asked  the  old  housekeeper, 
"How  is  he?  Had  he  everything  he  required?  Was 
there  any  lack  of  the  little  comforts  he  would  require 


480  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

in  his  old  age?    Did  the  people  remember  him?     Wha 
came  to  see  him?" 

And  the  old  woman  could  answer  that  he  was  well: 
but  changed,  sadly  changed  to  her  eyes. 

"He's  almost  like  a  child  now,  Miss,  or  perhaps  I 
should  say,  Ma'am.  He  sits  all  day,  thinking  and  pray- 
ing, but  never  talking.  But,  whin  any  of  the  prieshts 
comes,  he  sees  'em,  and  talks  to  'em  in  the  ould  way. 
The  people?  Ah,  the  people!  They  sees  now  their 
mistake,  and  the  crachures  are  doing  their  besht.  See 
here.  Miss,  or  maybe,  I  should  say.  Ma'am!" 

And  she  took  Annie  out  and  showed  her  a  whole  aviary 
of  young  turkeys,  geese,  and  hens,  cackling  melodiously 
in  the  yard,  or  straying  for  food  across  the  potato-patch. 

"And  sure  ould  Mrs.  Duggan  comes  down  every  week, 
—  ah !  she's  the  dacent  ould  shtock,  altho'  her  son  was 
a  blagard;  but  he's  all  right  now;  and  she  doesn't  know 
what  she  can  do  for  the  priesht.  But  still  he's  lonesome, 
Miss,  or  maybe  I  should  say.  Ma'am;  lonesome  for  some- 
thin'  ;  and  I  do  be  sometimes  afeard  that  maybe  the  death 
is  comin'  on  him." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  could  see  him,  Anne,  without  his  knowing 
it?" 

"  Yerra,  sure  I'll  tell  him.  Miss,  that  you're  here." 

"Oh,  no!  not  for  the  world,  Anne,"  she  said,  in  a  great 
fright.  "I  mean  not  now,  some  other  time;  and  don't 
tell  him  for  your  life  that  I've  been  here." 

"Faix,  I  won't,  Miss,  for  he'd  kill  me  if  he  knew  it, 
and  knew  I  didn't  tell  him." 

"But  I'll  come  again.  Tell  me  now,  when  you  go  in 
or  out  of  his  room,  does  he  know  you,  or  speak  to 
you?" 

"  Yerra,  no,  Miss.  Sure  he  never  opens  his  lips  to  me. 
I  takes  him  in  his  breakfast  and  dinner;  and  I  removes 
the  things;  and  he  never  says,  '  Iss,  Aye,  or  No,'  no  more 
than  if  I  wor  never  there  at  all." 

"  And  do  you  think  now,  if  I  —  that  is,  supposing 
that  I  took  your  place  some  day,  and  went  in  with  dinner, 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  481 

do  you  think  he  would  know  that  it  wasn't  you  that  was 
there?" 

"  Yerra,  how  could  he,  Miss  —  Ma'am,  I  should  say? 
That  is,  onless  you  spoke  to  him." 

"  Well,  now,  I'll  come  some  other  day,  perhaps  to- 
morrow, and  try.  You  know,  Anne,  that  he  is  old, 
and  that  it  would  never  do  to  give  him  a  great  sur- 
prise." 

"I  suppose  so.  Miss,"  said  Anne,  somewhat  incredu- 
lously. 

"  You  know  old  people  have  sometimes  died  suddenly 
from  sudden  surprises  like  that.  We  must  go  gently, 
Anne.  I  wonder  could  I  see  his  bedroom  now?  Is 
there  any  danger  he  would  know?" 

"Not  the  laste.  Miss,"  said  Anne.  "He  won't  know 
but  you're  one  of  the  neighbours  come  in  wid  a  few 
chickens." 

They  entered  the  old  man's  bedroom.  It  was  not  too 
bad.  But  the  heart  of  the  girl  sank  as  her  quick  eyes 
noticed  the  stains  on  the  pillow  covers  and  the  counter- 
pane; and  some  other  aspects  of  things  that  showed  that 
the  skill  of  the  washerwoman  was  not  often  called  into 
requisition. 

But  she  said  nothing,  fearing  to  hurt  the  feelings  of 
the  old  domestic.  But,  as  she  was  going  away,  she  said 
gaily : 

"There  are  a  lot  of  linens  and  things  up  at  the  house 
for  which  there  is  no  use.  I  think  I'll  bring  them  down 
to  you.     And  tell  me,  what  does  uncle  eat?" 

"Oh,  wisha.  Miss,  he  doesn't  ate  as  much  as  a  sparrow. 
He  haves  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  morning,  and  a  bit  of  toast 
about  the  size  of  a  sixpenny  bit.  And  thin  I  gets  him 
a  chop  or  a  chicken  for  his  dinner;  but  the  finest  lady 
in  the  lanci  30uldn  't  ate  less  of  it.  I  don't  know,  I'm  sure, 
how  hb  dves.  at  all,  at  all." 

"Very  well,  Anne.     Now  we'll  put  our  heads  together, 
you  and  I,  as  we  did  long  ago  —  do  you  remember  my 
cooking,  Anne?" 
32 


482  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Ah,  wisha,  Miss,  don't  I?  Sure  'twas  you  had  the 
light  hand  —  " 

"Very  good!  Now,  we'll  commence  again;  and  I'll 
engage  I'll  make  uncle  eat  something.  Good-bye  now! 
Did  I  tell  you  I  was  married,  Anne?" 

"You  didn't.  Miss;  but  sure  I  guessed  it.  And  there 
was  me,  like  an  old  fool,  callin'  you  'Miss'  all  the  time. 
But  sure  you  looks  as  young,  Miss,  as  the  night  you 
stepped  off  the  car  in  the  rain,  and  gev  us  all  the  fright." 

"Ah  me!  I  was  young  then.  I  am  older  now,  Anne, 
because  I  have  seen  a  great  deal." 

"Wisha  thin.  Miss,  I  wish  you  luck,  and  may  your 
ondhertakin'  thrive  wid  you.  Sure  won't  the  priesht  be 
glad  whin  he  hears  it?" 

"  Of  course,"  said  Annie,  dubiously.  "  But  not  a  word, 
Anne,  not  a  word  that  I  was  here.  Remember,  I'll  come 
to-morrow  again." 

She  came,  and  brought  a  complete  change  of  linen, 
etc.,  for  his  bedroom;  and  glided  away  again  without  a 
word  with  him.  The  old  housekeeper  again  urged  her 
to  go  in  and  speak  to  her  uncle ;  but  her  heart  failed  her. 
But  his  quick  senses  noticed  a  change  in  his  bedroom. 

"Anne,"  said  he,  half  jocularly,  "you're  becoming 
quite  fashionable.  Where  did  you  get  the  lavender  that 
is  in  my  pillow-covers  and  bed-linen?" 

Anne  coughed  behind  her  hand;  and,  this  seemed  to 
irritate  all  her  bronchial  tubes,  because  she  was  seized 
with  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  coughing  and  wheezing. 
When  she  recovered  her  breath,  she  said  faintly: 

"I  suppose  somethin'  quare  got  into  the  wather;  or 
maybe,  'twas  the  new  soap." 

"Maybe  so,"  he  said,  and  he  relapsed  into  silence 
again. 

Then  one  day,  Annie  summoned  up  courage,  and  with 
a  white  face  and  a  beating  heart,  she  took  the  dinner 
into  the  old  man's  room.  She  nearly  fell  at  the  thresh- 
old; but  calling  on  all  her  strength,  she  entered  the  room, 
and  softly  laid  the  plates  and  dishes  on  the  table.     If  he 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  483 

should  speak  now,  she  thought,  as  her  hands  trembled! 
But  not  a  word.  And  she  was  able  to  observe  him,  as 
he  sat  bolt  upright  in  an  arm-chair  near  the  window. 
But  her  self-possession  was  near  giving  way,  when  she 
saw  the  change,  which  was  greater  than  even  she  dreaded. 
For  the  tall  form,  though  erect,  seemed  dwarfed  and 
shrunken;  the  pale  face  was  paler,  and  she  noticed  with 
a  gasp  of  pity  that  he,  who  had  been  so  fastidious  and 
particular  about  his  personal  appearance,  was  unshaven, 
and  that  his  clothes  were  discoloured  and  soiled.  A  little 
rent  in  the  sleeve  spoke  volumes  to  her,  and  the  seam 
of  his  coat  was  opened  where  it  fell  over  his  fingers.  He 
held  a  book  in  his  hand  —  one  of  his  old  calf -bound  vol- 
umes, and  his  fingers  were  feeling  one  of  the  pages,  as 
if  he  were  striving  by  the  sense  of  touch  to  read  what  was 
written  therein.  He  made  no  movement  when  she  entered 
the  room,  and  seemed  not  to  notice  her  presence;  but,  as 
she  was  leaving,  he  gave  a  little  start  forward,  and  seemed 
to  be  listening  intently.  She  glided  softly  from  the  room, 
and  fell  into  a  chair  quite  faint  and  weak  with  emotion. 

Yet  she  came  every  day,  always  bringing  some  little 
article  of  food  or  furniture  or  clothing  to  make  a  little 
happier  the  lonely  life  that  was  now  spread  before  her 
in  all  its  pathos  and  solemnity.  She  didn't  seem  to  know 
how  acute  are  the  senses  of  the  blind;  and  how  the  swift 
intelligence  and  observation  of  her  uncle  were  gathering 
clue  after  clue  from  her  movements. 

She  had  now  become  so  accustomed  to  enter  his  room 
unnoticed,  that  she  had  become  almost  reckless,  and 
probably  betrayed  herself  in  many  little  ways.  And 
one  day,  as  she  busied  herself  around  the  dinner-table, 
arranging  cloths  and  napkins,  she  heard  her  name  called 
softly,  and  as  if  by  question: 

"Annie?" 

She  stood  silent,  watching  him  intently.  He  was 
leaning  forward,  as  if  eager  to  catch  fresh  indications  of 
her  presence,  and  yet  not  quite  sure  that  he  was  right. 
But  he  said  again  in  a  louder  tone : 


484  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.   GRAY 

"Annie,  I  know  'tis  you.     Come  here!" 

And  she  went  over,  and  knelt  humbly  at  his  feet, 
placing  her  clasped  hands  on  his  knees.  He  stretched 
forth  his  withered  hand,  and  passed  it  gently  and  affec- 
tionately over  her  hair,  and  then  more  tenderly  and  rev- 
erently over  the  soft  lines  of  her  face.  She  looked  up, 
and  saw  the  tears  streaming  down  the  furrowed  cheeks, 
and  she  knew  all. 

"Oh,  Uncle,  Uncle!  and  have  you  quite  forgiven  me?" 

He  said  nothing,  but  drew  her  more  closely  to  him. 
Then  he  found  words  to  say: 

"I  knew  you'd  come.  I  knew  you  wouldn't  desert 
me!" 

And  that  was  all.  For  now  in  the  sunset  of  his  life 
the  clouds  had  lifted,  and  were  now  wreathing  themselves 
in  all  lovely  forms  around  the  little  remnant  of  his  life, 
Annie  came  every  day,  and  remained  with  him  from 
luncheon  time  to  dinner.  Every  day  Dion  drove  her 
down  the  four  or  five  miles  from  Rohira  to  the  home  of 
the  lonely  priest.  At  first,  he  drove  back  when  his  young 
wife  had  alighted ,  and  came  for  her  again  in  the  evening. 
But  when  the  great  revelation  was  made  he  too  had  to 
come  and  stay.  When  Annie  broke  to  her  uncle  the  fact 
of  her  marriage  with  Dion,  he  started,  and  just  one  flash 
of  the  old  spirit  broke  out  again. 

"Wycherly?     Why,  he's  a  Protestant!" 

But  she  was  able  to  assure  him  that  she  had  been  faith- 
ful to  her  principles,  and  then  she  opened  up  before  him, 
as  only  a  devoted  wife  could,  all  the  splendours  of  Dion's 
character,  his  fearlessness,  his  honour,  his  manliness,  his 
freedom  above  all  from  the  passion  of  gain.  And  many 
an  afternoon  was  whiled  away  by  Dion's  recital  of  his 
many  adventures  by  sea  and  land.  And  then  his  voice 
became  softer,  as  he  remembered  with  just  a  little  touch 
of  conscience,  the  devotion  of  his  black  dependents;  and 
softer  still,  when  he  spoke  of  that  grave  beneath  the 
African  skies,  where  the  stricken  brother  had  found  rest. 

"It  was  poor  Jack,  sir."  he  said,  "that  proposed  for 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  485 

me  to  Annie.  I  was  too  much  afraid  of  her  to  say  all 
that  was  in  my  mind.  But  Jack,  poor  fellow,  knew 
it  all.  And  one  day,  he  clasped  our  hands  together 
above  his  hammock,  and  'twas  all  done.  Of  course, 
Annie  told  me  at  once  that  it  could  never  be,  never, 
never,  never!  Then  I  began  to  find  that  never  meant 
until  — .  And  then  she  began  to  explain  to  me  all  about 
the  mysteries  of  faith;  but  I  had  no  head  for  these  things. 
I  could  box  the  compass,  or  shoot  a  flying  fish,  or  horse- 
whip a  coward;  but  I  couldn't  get  hold  of  such  slippery 
things  as  mysteries  and  doctrines.  So  Annie  explained 
to  me  all  about  explicit  faith.  And  then  the  good  Padre 
came;  and  he  said  to  me,  'Do  you  believe  all  the  Catholic 
Church  teaches?'  And  I  said,  'If  Annie  believes  all  the 
Church  teaches,  and  I  believe  all  that  Annie  believes, 
isn't  that  the  same  thing? '  And,  by  Jove,  he  was  puzzled ; 
but,  of  course,  he  had  to  say  '  Yes!'  And  I  was  baptized; 
and  we  were  spliced.  And,  by  Jove,  sir,  I  hope  the  Angels 
will  put  off  my  call  to  glory  for  some  time.  I  don't 
want  any  other  heaven  just  yet." 

At  another  time  in  earlier  life,  the  stern  old  theologian 
would  hardly  accept  this  kind  of  explicit  faith  as  a  pre- 
liminary to  entering  the  Church;  but  now  he  saw  by  the 
illumination  of  sorrow  great  hidden  depths  beneath  the 
apparent  frivolity  of  this  strong  character,  and  he  said 
nothing.  But  he  asked,  with  some  hesitation,  how 
Dion's  father  had  taken  the  news  of  his  son's  conversion 
and  marriage. 

"Dad?  Ah,  if  you  were  to  see  dad.  He's  twenty 
years  younger  since  we  came  home;  and  when  he  puts 
on  his  velvet  jacket,  and  brushes  down  his  hair  on  his 
shoulders,  he's  quite  a  beau.  One  day,  we  had  a  funny 
little  scene  which  explains  matters.  We  were  talking 
about  old  times,  and  Jack's  terrible  illness,  and  Annie's 
great  tenderness  and  kindness,  and  dad  said :  '  I  remember 
I  once  expressed  a  wish  that  I  had  a  daughter,  like  you, 
Annie.'  And  Annie  blushed,  and  said,  'I  heard  you, 
sir!'    And  that's  the  reason,  I  suppose,"  Dion  continued. 


486  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

as  Annie  entered  the  room,  "that  Annie  set  the  trap  for 
me;  and  I,  an  innocent  fellow,  fell  into  it." 

And  one  day,  Annie  proposed  to  her  uncle,  very  mod- 
estly and  gently,  that  she  would  read  to  him  some  hours 
each  day,  at  intervals,  from  his  old  favourite  books,  the 
classics,  or  the  theologians,  whom  he  had  never  parted 
with.  His  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure.  She  took 
down  a  Horace,  and  began  to  read  one  of  the  Odes.  The 
Latin  was  beyond  her  own  comprehension,  for  old  Horace 
had  a  dainty  way  of  saying  things.  But  she  had  not  pro- 
ceeded far,  when  he  stopped  her: 

"Do  you  think  you  understand  the  meaning  of  that 
Ode,  Annie?" 

"No!"  she  said.  "I  recognize  a  word  here  and  there; 
and  that  is  all." 

"And  'tis  enough,"  he  said.  "I  think  I've  had  enough 
of  Horace." 

"Well,  then,  we'll  try  the  magician,  Virgil,"  she  said, 
replacing  the  Horace,  and  taking  down  a  Delphin  Virgil. 

She  read  on  for  some  time,  opening  the  pages  here  and 
there;  but  he  seemed  to  be  weary  of  it  also. 

"  Well,  then,  here's  St.  Thomas,"  she  said.  "  Of  course, 
'tis  all  Greek  to  me;  but  I  shall  be  able  to  read  so  that 
you,  Uncle,  can  follow." 

And  she  commenced  to  read  slowly  and  with  difficulty 
from  the  Summa.  He  listened  more  patiently  now,  and 
apparently  with  some  pleasure.  But,  the  brain  was  now 
less  elastic  than  in  former  times;  and  he  again  showed 
signs  of  weariness. 

"I'll  tell  you  what.  Uncle,"  she  said  gaily,  although  her 
heart  misgave  her,  "  I'll  bring  on  to-morrow  what  Dion 
calls  a  good  rousing  novel  —  lots  of  fighting  and  love- 
making,  and  thunder  and  lightning;  and  I'll  put  you 
through  a  course  of  them." 

He  smiled.  He  had  never  read  a  novel  in  the  whole 
course  of  life. 

She  kept  her  word.     She  brought  down  not  what  she 


"IT  IS  THE  LAW"  487 

had  suggested;  but  a  tender  and  gentle  tale;  but  alas! 
it  was  full  of  the  tragedy  and  sorrow  of  the  world.  He 
grew  almost  angry. 

"Is  there  not  sorrow  and  trouble  enough  in  real  life," 
he  said,  "without  wringing  our  hearts  with  pictured 
misery  and  desolation?" 

And  Annie  desisted;  and  looked  around  her  in  a  hope- 
less manner. 

There  was  an  old  Greek  Testament,  hidden  among 
his  books;  and  she  took  it  out,  and  dusted  it. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "I  must  keep  up  my  Greek,  Uncle. 
I  wonder  can  I  translate  this?" 

And  she  opened  the  fourteenth  chapter  of  the  Gospel 
of  St.  John,  and  began  to  read. 

This  time  he  did  not  interrupt  her.  The  soft,  sweet 
music  of  the  Greek,  in  which  are  enshrined  the  solemn 
messages  of  the  "new  Commandment,"  sank  into  his 
soul;  and  he  allowed  his  niece  to  read  on  to  the  very  end 
of  that  sublime  discourse  and  prayer  for  his  disciples 
which  the  Divine  Master  uttered  under  the  most  solemn 
circumstances  of  His  life. 

"  Take  the  Douay  Testament,  and  read  it  for  me  again, 
if  you  are  not  tired,"  he  said. 

And  commencing  at  the  words:  "Let  not  your  heart 
be  troubled.  You  beheve  in  God,  believe  also  in  me," 
she  read  uninterruptedly  to  the  end  of  the  seventeenth 
chapter. 

"That  will  do!"  he  said.  "That  is  now  my  poetry, 
philosophy,  and  theology,  unto  the  end.  We  need  no 
more!" 

And  every  day,  even  unto  the  end,  that  was  his  mental 
food  and  medicine.  He  saw  at  last  that  the  "  new  Com- 
mandment" was  the  "final  law"  of  the  universe,  although 
everything  in  Nature  and  in  Man  seems  to  disprove  it; 
or  as  that  sad  poet  interpreted  it,  who,  had  he  lived, 
would  have  been  the  fervent  disciple  of  Him  whom  he 
railed  against  during  life: 


488  THE  BLINDNESS  OF  DR.  GRAY 

"Love  is  celebrated  everywhere  as  the  sole  law  which 
should  govern  the  moral  world." 

It  is  a  doctrine  difficult  to  believe,  as  the  "law"  is  a 
difficult  one  to  practise;  but  the  law  is  final.  It  is  the 
last  word  that  has  been  uttered  by  Divine  and  human 
philosophy. 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


.  ..    \^B 


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